I Loathe You
by conway123
Summary: Princess Clary returns to Idris after four years in America. Everything is as it should be. Until she learns she must marry in thirty days to become Queen or forfeit the crown to none other than Jace Herondale. Basically The Princess Diaries movie but TMI. Same AU as one-shot "I Loathe You First"
1. Welcome Home, Biscuit

Princess Clarissa gazed up from her sketchbook, taking in the sight of her home country as Idris came into view. Her heart ached as she thought of her home. She hadn't laid eyes on the green mountains and sparkling lakes in so long that for a time she'd almost forgotten. Almost.

A noble turned king, her father, Valentine Morgenstern had died in a car crash, along with her brother, Jonathan when she was fourteen. After investigations, the Queen had reason to believe their death was no accident. Jonathan had been the heir to Idris until his death, meaning Clary was next in line. Fearing for her daughter's life, Jocelyn sent the young princess to live in the foreign land of America with her best friend and trusted head of security, Luke Graymark. It was now a month after Clary had graduated from high school, and Jocelyn knew her daughter was finally ready to come home and claim her rightful place as Queen.

She was amazed at the thought of being queen, yet nerves were a permanent resident now in her mind. Her mother was most likely to help her, along with Izzy. Oh, how she hadn't seen her best friend in years. She couldn't wait to see everyone from her childhood. Well, mostly everyone. Isabelle Lightwood and her brother, Alec, had come to the palace so many times over her childhood she lost track after a few months. They were practically residents, always over when their parents had business to attend to and even when there wasn't a specific reason, they were there. On multiple occasions, they had brought their honorary brother, none other than Jace Herondale. She rolled her eyes at the thought. He'd always gotten on her nerve. From the way he was a little too cocky; to the way he never wiped that smirk off his face. She wondered if the Lightwoods were still in touch with the Herondales.

"Ready, Clary?" Luke asked, nudging her shoulder.

They had landed without her noticing. "Yep," she answered. She gently placed her sketchbook into her carry-on backpack before disembarking the plane.

The first thing she noticed was the air, cool and crisp. The sun was setting in the distance, leaving an array of beautiful warm tones that she knew her mother would be dying to paint. Luke waited for the chauffeur to gather their luggage before sliding into the limo. She knew that starting soon her etiquette would have to make a reappearance. Her mother always told her that a princess should never slide into the car. Her mother would have a heart attack if she'd known how many times Clary had in the past four years. She looked over at Luke, who had rolled down the window as soon as the car drove from the airport. She knew he loved being back here as much as she did.

"You know, you can stick your head out the window if you'd like," she teased, chuckling at the way he glared.

He gave her a small shove on the shoulder, "I may like the outdoors more than the average person, but I'm not a golden retriever."

She laughed amused once more when she saw how desperately he was trying to hide his smile, "yeah, yeah. Sure, Luke."

The rest of the ride passed in awe, each utterly consumed with the speeding landscape. Clary found she was smiling and waving at the people, who had gathered around, excited for their princess to be home. Before long, the gleaming city of Alicante came into view, and the glass castle towered over them.

"Her Royal Highness Princess Clarissa Adele Fairchild has arrived," was announced as she made her way out of the limo. She never did get used to people announcing her name wherever she went.

She was stood in the entryway for a moment before her mother was rushing over. Jocelyn clutched her dress in one hand so she could glide with ease toward her daughter. Then she was enveloped in the first hug she'd gotten from her mother in four years, and damn did it feel good.

"Darling, how was the flight?" her mother questioned as she pulled away. Her mother had faint smile lines surrounding her mouth, yet still looked youthful and bright. Her hair was pulled up into an elegant updo, yet auburn curls had managed to escape, and her dress was emerald green.

Before she had the chance to respond, she heard a deafening squeal. She saw a few guards and advisers flinch as the girl made her way down the steps, heels clacking against the floors in an eager attempt to reach her. She recognized her immediately as Isabelle Lightwood, the girl she hadn't seen in forever. Her ink black hair was silky and straight, swishing back and forth from all the movement and she wore a beautiful long, navy blue dress that accentuated her hips looked striking against her hair. The girl reached her in record time and pulled her into a hug.

"Clare! I've missed you so much. There's so much that's happened over the past four years, we need to catch up."

Clary laughed lightly as the bubbly girl loosened her death grip and faced her, "I've missed you too, Iz. Always as loud as ever I see."

She waved her off, "well, you know me." She turned to the Queen, "I'm sorry, Jocelyn, but could I snatch Clary for a while. I know you were just reunited so I wouldn't like to intrude-"

"Nonsense, Isabelle," Jocelyn smiled. "I have things I need to discuss with Luke don't I?"

She directed the last to Luke. She smiled warmly at her friend, which he returned. Clary had always wondered if there was anything going on between her mother and him. They seemed to be more than just friends. Luke had always denied it when she'd asked. After a while, she'd stopped asking yet her mind never stopped wondering. The Queen turned back to the two girls who were still standing in the foyer, "Run along, just make sure she's ready in time for the Princess' birthday ball."

Clary groaned. She was never a fan of dances; they were more of Izzy's scene. She always had to make her rounds with the noble families and dance until splinters were covering her feet. "You really didn't have too."

Jocelyn flicked both of her wrists as if the idea of no ball was appalling. "Sweetheart, what kind of mother would I be if I didn't throw my eighteen-year-old daughter a ball?"

"A normal one," Clary muttered though it had no bite. She was glad her mother was trying to do something special for her. Her intentions were in the right place which mattered most.

Izzy rolled her eyes playfully, no doubt having heard the little red head's response. She suddenly swung her arm through Clary's, dragging the redhead up the stairs. "We have much to talk about. Don't worry, Jocelyn, Clary will look incredible tonight!"

* * *

It was surprising how quickly things returned to normalcy with the pair, laughing and teasing as though Clary'd never left. They'd, of course, kept in touch over the years, but life always got in the way. Clary had spent time with her school friends Maia and Jordan, going to movies and the occasional party, while Izzy had been going to garden parties and being tutored at the palace. The past few years were so different yet it hadn't driven a wedge between them. If that didn't, she didn't know what would.

Clary had followed Isabelle to her old chambers, which were different from the last time she'd seen it.

Her old room looked as though her personality had exploded all over. Paintings and sketches stuck to every inch of space. The room before her looked like an extra guest bedroom at some manor. That was going to have to change.

They sat on the grand bed, catching up. It was more like Izzy chattering away as Clary intently listened but she didn't mind. She liked hearing Isabelle's clear, melodic voice again. It was nostalgic.

"-was out with Simon and… Are you listening?" Izzy's voice snapped Clary out of her thoughts. Clary grinned sheepishly and shook her head. "It's fine, I guess I've been talking your ear off."

"No, no, I really don't mind. I was just thinking." She flopped down onto her pillow and snuggled into Izzy's side. The flight really had taken its toll. She struggled to keep her eyes open yet her eyelids won the battle in the end. It was a comfortable silence for a few minutes before Clary forced herself to get up and she smirked at Izzy jokingly.

"What's this I hear about Simon? Simon Lovelace, I presume."

Izzy blushed a deep shade of scarlet, resembling the rose of Idris that frequently appeared in the royal gardens.

"Oh, yeah." She giggled and sighed deeply, "I used to have the biggest crush on him. Remember that? Back when he'd chase us around the gardens until our dresses were filthy and our mothers would scold us."

Clary smiled at the memory. It seemed long ago yet she missed it terribly.

"I would always drop him hints that I was interested, like always asking him to dance with me at parties and holding his hand. He never seemed to notice!" Isabelle huffed in exasperation.

"Well, Simon's just clueless like that," Clary said which was true. That boy couldn't take a hint if his life depended on it.

"Yeah, so I was extremely fed up. Instead of waiting around for him to ask me, I asked him out about a year ago and it's been good ever since." Clary faced her friend to see a genuine, loving smile on her face. Even if Clary had never been in love, she was glad her friend was experiencing it.

"That's great, Izzy, really."

"Who knows," Izzy grinned cheekily at the princess before continuing in a singsong-like manner, "You may meet someone at the ball..."

Izzy shot up from her laid back position and snapped her fingers in remembrance. "Which reminds me, my dear Clarissa, that we must get you ready for that ball." She leaped off the bed and bounded into the walk-in closet, shuffling through the selection of gowns that Clary would have never personally chosen. "Let's pretty you up."

It was close to time, and Izzy had managed to stuff Clary into a heavy dress and tripping hazards that were more commonly known as high heels. Izzy squealed at her friend, amazed at the finished result. She had put on some makeup despite Clary's adamant refusal, convinced Clary to wear at least three-inch heels and had chosen a gown that made the princess look stunning, with accessories to match. "Turn around and look at yourself, Clare!"

Clary turned to face the floor length mirror in her closet and was shocked. She'd forgotten what it was like to wear dresses and be all dolled up. Her dress was stunning. A strapless, sweetheart neckline bodice, that cascaded out at the hips. The bottom trim was lined with intricate floral designs. She swept her hands over the deep purple material, surprised by its softness. "Thank you, Iz. I'm speechless."

"Anything for you, C."

* * *

Izzy had left Clary-in the hallway that lead to the balcony looking over the ballroom- to meet up with her family; sure they'd be arriving soon. She promised to find her later, knowing full well the party was going to be dull. She waited for what seemed like forever before the double doors swung open, and she made her appearance. The lights were bright and harsh, blinding her momentarily before she could make out the faces she all recognized yet barely knew. She found her mother, standing on the steps below her. She looked as exquisite as ever with the crown gracing her head. Jocelyn gave her daughter a reassuring smile before clinking her champagne flute, gathering the attention of all.

"Many of you remember my and King Valentine's daughter, Clarissa."

"King Valentine, may he rest in peace," the crowd chanted somberly.

"Thank you," the Queen paused before continuing. "Please raise your glasses in celebration of my daughter's eighteenth birthday."

Clary waved politely down at them and smiled as they raised their glasses in salute. She had to admit that everything was going pretty well before she flung her wrist too swiftly, causing her bracelet to fly off. Thankfully, one of the guards had caught the spinning contraption and handed it back. Her cheeks flushed pink as she descended the staircase.

 _How embarrassing_ , she thought. _She would kill Izzy if she ended up tripping down the stairs._

The party was normal so far, if not on the bland side. She paid her respects by talking to the diplomats, politicians and the Clave members, Idris' government. They all said the same things, "good to see you again, Clarissa" or "nice for you to be back, Clarissa". She had wanted to snap on more than one occasion, to shout "it's Clary!" yet she knew that wasn't the right decision.

 _Screw the right decision._

She took a spoon off one of the tables and dug it into the icing of a beautifully decorated cake, not in the slightest bit guilty. She'd managed to sneak another small spoonful when she heard a voice.

"I saw that," they taunted jokingly. She knew that voice anywhere.

"Magnus!" she squealed, throwing her arms around the man she hadn't seen in years. He was another one of the noble's sons that often frequented the castle when she was younger. She'd always loved the older boy, even though he'd endlessly launched bags of sparkles into the air, always ending up embedded into her frizzy hair.

He hugged her back equally as hard. When she pulled away, she noticed how much he'd changed. Yet his obsession with glitter was eternal. Shiny gold powder adorned his eyelids and his eyes glimmered in the artificial light, appearing like cat slits.

"It's been too long, Biscuit. Walk with me," he exclaimed, using the old nickname that she'd always admired. He grabbed her hand and weaved them through the huddles of people. "What's up, Mags?"

"Oh, just partying, girl, you know-" Clary came to a stop as Magnus accidentally dragged her into a body, her foot slammed onto someone's shoe. The person bent forwards and the two knocked heads. The man groaned and stood up straight.

"Oh, your foot! I'm sorry-" her voice halted when she looked at the incredibly handsome stranger. She couldn't stop staring into his eyes, which were golden and warm like the sun. He was tall, broad and muscular yet lean, with curly hair, gold like his eyes. An angel, if she ever saw one. She would have kept staring if it wasn't for Magnus, who elbowed her discretely in the side.

"Are you alright?" She asked dumbly. _Of course, he isn't alright, I stomped all over his toes!_

The man bowed slightly, "I'll survive, your Highness. I must admit, your foot isn't all that heavy."

Clary blushed of embarrassment for what felt like the millionth time this evening. She smiled apologetically, "are you sure you don't want to exchange licenses and proof of insurance?"

"These shoes were a little too big anyway; the swelling will help them fit better."

Magnus tugged on Clary's arm, indicating he was ready to move on. "Come on, Biscuit. You haven't even started dancing yet," he gently reminded.

Clary excused herself and let Magnus weaves her through the crowd once more. She found herself wondering if she'd see that boy again.

"Now, Clare, I need to rendezvous with a few nobles but I'll find you later for a dance?"

She nodded absentmindedly, "sure, Mags, I'll start dancing. I see my mother giving me a look."

In a whiff of glitter, he disappeared as fast as he'd appeared. She sighed, her feet already aching. How she'd dance with every eligible man in Idris, she didn't know.

* * *

It was a tradition that on a princess's eighteenth birthday, she must dance with every eligible man at her ball in hopes of finding a suitor. It was an old-time law, but her country didn't like the idea of change much. She was quickly approached by a boy, then another, and another. She was whisked away by suitors mostly her age yet some younger, some older. She was endlessly stepped on, jostled around and struck by language barriers that she was ashamed she couldn't cross. The worst was so far had been a thin, lanky man who was definitely into Broadway. He spun her around in circles until she was dazed and dropped into the splits after the song ended. She had danced with Magnus too, which was a nice break. She learned that Magnus was dating Alec Lightwood in secret, but since they weren't technically public yet, Magnus was supposed to dance with Clary. She understood why they weren't out yet, the country of Idris was very conservative the last she'd known. Her dance with Alec Lightwood was rather pleasant too, if not a bit awkward. They'd never been as close as she was with his sister, but she still remembered admiring him greatly when they were younger: him always protecting the two of them and occasionally giving in to their requests for tea parties.

She wished she was still with one of those two men. She was currently dancing with another man who kept dipping their linked hands very deeply to the side.

"It looks like he's trying to land a plane!" Magnus commented, exasperated at this fact to a cackling Izzy. He had dipped Clary again so low that her crown almost dropped when someone else appeared.

"May I cut in?" He inquired. Clary, still hazy from her last dance, looked up to see the man who'd she'd stepped on earlier.

"Your timing is impeccable. Thank you." She tried not to pay attention to the way his arms wrapped around her waist, and how her hand felt against his. _Stay calm, Clary, you don't even know who he is._

 _"_ You're welcome, Princess Clarissa." He guided her gracefully across the ballroom, swaying in time with the music. She caught glimpses of Magnus pointing over to her while mentioning something to a wide-eyed Izzy.

"Clary, I like to go by Clary."

"Alright, Clary." The way he said her name was like music to her ears. She had never liked her name more. He had an air of confidence to him that intrigued Clary. She studied his features. He looked familiar, yet she couldn't quite place him. Perhaps his parents had visited the castle along with him once.

"And you are?" She wondered aloud. She was never good at puzzles, she had to admit. She'd rather know the answer rather than figure it out after hours later.

"That wouldn't be a mystery, now would it?" He smirked when she visibly frowned.

"I see my clumsiness hasn't affected your dancing. I'm sorry I stepped on your foot," she said truthfully. A strand of curly blond fell out of place and she felt a slight urge to tuck it back, yet decided against it.

"You can step on my foot anytime," he grinned as the music ended. Clary was about to respond when her mother called, "Clary, Darling, the Lovelaces are here."

Clary felt a wash of excitement and disappointment overcame her. She would see Simon for the first time in so long, yet she didn't want to leave the stranger in front of her. She curtsied politely, "I hope to see you again... Golden Boy."

One eyebrow rose at the newly made nickname. She found herself instantly jealous since she'd always tried and failed to master that small gesture.

"You decided to not reveal your name, so I made one for you. Bye now," she teased. She then turned to leave him on the dance floor, smirking to herself.

While she made her way to Simon, a tray grazed over her head, knocking her crown off. The waiter apologized profusely as she kept assuring him, "it's okay!"

An older man who she recognized as Viscount Herondale had gotten there in time to catch the crown before it fell to the ground, swooping it so that it sat on top of Clary's head once more.

"You better be careful with that thing, wouldn't want anyone snatching it," he chuckled as Clary adjusted the crown so that it sat straight.

"Oh, I hope not!" Clary joked along.

"Like me," the man muttered, unbeknownst to Clary or any of the other guests. No, this scheme wasn't to be revealed yet. It was only known between him and his son...

"Clary!" Simon called, making his way over, stumbling into people who cursed loudly at him and his clumsiness.

"Goodbye, Viscount Herondale..?"

He nodded politely, "what a good memory you have, Princess."

Clary wrapped her friend in a long hug. She sighed; life was the way it should've been. "What's this I hear about you being too chicken to ask out Izzy?"

He rolled his eyes jokingly. Sarcastically, he replied, "I missed you too, Clare."

Clary looped her arm with her friend's and dragged him over to the food table, ordering him to tell her all the details. The rest of the night she got reacquainted with them all, hearing stories of their teen years that she missed out on and exchanging ones of her own. She went to bed that night blissfully happy, if not somewhat bruised. She was exhausted and sleep succumbed quickly. She made a mental note to draw the image that was captured in her mind; all her friends gathered around in fancy get-ups and chatting like she'd never left. She wondered what the palace would have in store for her tomorrow...


	2. The Devil Arrives at the Castle

Clary woke when the curtains to her room were brutally ripped open. Hot sunlight poured into the cracks and crevices of the room; lighting every available surface.

"Rise and shine, princess!" an unfamiliar voice with a thick Idrisian accent squealed as they shuffled around the room.

Clary groaned in frustration and threw her pillow in the general direction of the noise. "Who are you?" she wondered aloud, as she buried herself deeper into the covers. She had never been a morning person, always preferring to stay in late and worry about what to do later.

"I'm Brigitta; your maid, miss. Helaena is just getting your breakfast for you down in the kitchen," the ever so chipper voice responded.

Clary sighed, knowing she wouldn't be going back to sleep anytime soon. She sat up; stretching her limbs like a cat and saw a petite, blonde girl running around the room. Her hair was in an intricate braid, pinned atop her head with multiple clips and she was wearing a light blue, apron dress.

"I'm sorry I threw my pillow at you."

Brigitta paused from her scurrying to give the princess a smile. "No worries miss. Your coordination isn't up to par, if I may add. The pillow missed me by a few feet," she joked.

Another woman with strawberry blonde hair cut in a choppy bob came in carrying a tray. Clary's mouth watered at the sight of the thinly sliced bread, fried eggs, and crisp bacon. "Thank you," she murmured before digging in. It was only until she'd finished an egg and two slices of bread before she looked up to see her maids standing patiently at the door. She wanted to smack herself for forgetting.

"I'm sorry you two," she said regretfully. "You may be dismissed. Go have breakfast, please." The two nodded and they were gone before Clary could have another bite.

* * *

After Clary had completed her breakfast, she took it upon herself to re-explore the castle she'd once called home. Her mother's secretary had told her that the queen would be in session with the Clave for the morning and was not to be disturbed, though she wanted to meet in the throne room in an hour to discuss something. Clary wondered what it could be. Clary was about to search for Isabelle when she remembered that the girl had returned with her family for the night, back to their manor.

Clary took in every detail of the halls with her artist's eye. The nooks and crannies she'd once known as the back of her hand seemed foreign and strange. She knew it'd be a while for her to re-discover them all. The architecture was absolutely beautiful; it was a shame that the buildings in America hadn't been constructed like-so. Gothic pillars held its ceilings, roses and rayed suns carved into the footings. The walls were lined with paintings that no doubt her mother had created during her absence, for she recognized none of the actual paintings, but her mother's handiwork itself. She arrived at the end of a hall filled with knight's armor. Thinking it was a dead end, she was about to turn back until her eye caught something peculiar.

It was a golden goddess figure who stood on a pedestal, brandishing two blades and had a mischievous glint in her eyes. It reminded her vaguely of the statuette of the Indian goddess, Kali, which Luke had while in America. Clary ran her fingers over the gold gingerly, admiring the curves and bends. Her hand jerked away when the figurine snapped back, and a piece of artwork swung open like a door. Maybe she hadn't known the castle as well as she'd thought after all. She peered around as a cautionary measure, making sure no one would follow before she stepped inside.

The air was damp and humid; the musky stench was enough to make her gag on impact. It was clear that these halls were long forgotten. They may have been used as secret passages during the time of rebellion during Idris, to keep the royalty safe from the rebel group, The Circle's, attacks. She didn't know much about them since her mother was so persistent for her tutor to skip over that period of history. Yet, she had heard recent rumors that the people of Idris were stirring, wanting change. The Fairchild line had been on the throne for far too long, they said.

She was brought down when the laces of her green sneakers got wedged into the splinters of the wood. She cursed as she tumbled onto the floor, getting scrapes on her hands. Clary was about to brush herself off as though nothing had happened- it wasn't like anyone else was around to testify-when she heard voices. Clear and pristine, echoing around her. It was then she realized a small vent in the wall lead to the boardroom. She had never been allowed to step foot into such areas.

"You're too young, Clare Bear," her brother would constantly remind her.

She crouched down in a very unladylike manner and peered through the opening into the room. She mostly saw the feet of old, noblemen and members of the Clave. Their black shoes all the same and squeaky clean. She strained to hear what they were discussing.

"The Clave of Idris is now in session, Prime Minister Starkweather presiding..."

A man with slick black hair with splattered grey streaks and round glasses sat in his seat front and center in the court-like room. He smashed the gavel and spoke, "Viscount Herondale, you have the floor."

The viscount she'd spoken to the previous night stood. He was tall, broad shoulders and striking golden blonde locks. He reminded her of someone, she instantly recognized, yet who? His robes were immaculately kept, not a wrinkle on the entirety of them and his eyes calculated the room with an air of superiority. Whatever he had to say, was ought to be beneficial to his behalf.

"As we all know, the 18th birthday of the heir to the royal bloodline is indeed a great deal of significance. It signifies that this young person is eligible to assume the throne."

The room nodded and murmured their responses. Clary held in a gasp as she realized that they were talking about her! She snapped her eyes to Prime Minister Starkweather as he let out an exasperated sigh.

"We are all aware of this, Viscount," he shook his head slightly as if it had been the millionth time mentioning this. "The Queen has already stated that the Princess intends to learn more at her side before assuming the throne." Clary saw her mother give the viscount a tired look.

She faced the viscount once more, whose eyes seemed to flicker before continuing, a slight smile bestowed upon his lips. "It was not Princess Clarissa to whom I was referring."

Clary's face contorted into one of confusion. Her brows were knit together and her lips turned to a frown. She found her mother with the same expression. The queen was as clueless as she was.

The man knew he held all the power. It was so clearly in the palm of his hands. He ambled around the room, looking at each of the confused faces of his colleagues. He held their attention, so he gave them suspense.

"As of the 18th of January this year," he started. "Another heir to the bloodline of Idris was eligible to assume the crown."

Clary's eyes shot wide open. It felt as though all the air was sucked from her lungs and she was a fish out of water. This was preposterous! How dare he?

The man now faced the impatient looking queen. He took pleasure in watching her squirm under his stern gaze. Knowing how much it would frustrate her, he smiled. Teeth barring like a vicious alpha wolf, ready to attack its prey. "My son, Lord Jace," he said.

Jace, as in Izzy's brother, Jace? Her mind screamed. He had always had it out for her, but this crossed the ultimate line.

A collection of gasps rang through the room. The Clave muttered their curses and prayed to their Angel Raziel for a miracle that would save them from the hot water the viscount was so determined to drown them in.

"I beg your pardon?" The queen was furious. She had risen from her chair, gripping at the table with her mama bear claws. Her eyes glowed as red as the hair atop her head and she gritted her teeth together so hard the entire council could hear.

"I am pleased to say that my son, Lord Jace, is ready to take the crown."

"Shut up!" The queen exclaimed. She covered her mouth as soon as the words escaped, no doubt trying to think of an excuse as the viscount's smile turned into a scowl.

"Shut up, doesn't always mean, well... 'Shut up!'" The prime minister jumped into the queen's aid. Him rambling on about the various meanings like 'gee whiz' or 'by the Angel'. Clary had zoned out long ago. Her vision blurred.

"Isn't Princess Clarissa first in line to ascend the throne?" Someone piped up.

The crowd murmured in agreement. "Not yet," someone else exclaimed. Clary tried to glare holes into the back of the man's head yet to no avail. "The Law states that a princess must marry in order to become queen."

Marry? Clary wondered. She just graduated high school and they wanted her to get married?

"We have never enforced that Law!" The queen raged. To say she was furious was an understatement. "A man mustn't marry to become king. It's the 21st century for angel's sake."

The oldest member of the Clave rose and the room was hushed silent. He was respected by many and whatever he said goes. His face was wrinkled with age yet his eyes held wisdom that many would never have the chance to experience. "This has been the Law in Idris for the past 300 years. And to be quite frank, my queen, many of us are unsure the princess is the most suitable choice to govern our great nation."

"That is a load of bullshit," Clary growled under her breath. If she could shoot fire with her eyes, she would.

The prime minister stood once more with a bargain on the princess's behalf. "I say, we give the princess one year during which time she finds a suitable man to marry-"

He was cut off by angry council members, who burst out their own opinions as if they mattered. 100 days... 60 days. Clary flinched as the number slowly dropped lower and lower.

"Thirty days!" The elder proclaimed, and that was that. Not wanting to hear anymore, Clary stormed out of the hallway and burst into the throne room, leaving a trail of wet tears behind her. She knew her mother would have an explanation soon.

* * *

Clary paced back and forth in front of her mother, her words barely audible as she rambled her thoughts out.

"How could the Clave expect me to fall in love in 30 days? It's like they want me to agree to an arranged marriage or something..." she trailed off as the reality sunk in. Her mother rested a hand on her daughter's shoulder. Clary faced her mother and saw the sadness sunk within her emerald orbs.

"That's it. They want me to agree to an arranged marriage. Who would agree to something like that?" She shouted; her voice trailing off once more as another reality sunk in. "You did, mom," she laughed nervously.

The queen bowed her head and gave her a small smile. "Your father was a good man, he was my best friend. We grew quite fond of each other. Not all arranged marriages end so terribly."

Clary sucked the bottom of her lip before proceeding. "But that's it, mom. I don't want fondness. I want a chance to love someone."

"You have a choice, Clary." The puzzled look on her face led the queen to continue her thoughts. "You don't have to be a queen."

Clary ran a hand through her curls in an impossible attempt to tame them. "This is so unfair," she whispered.

Clary gazed around the throne room, her eyes landing on a portrait of the most recent royal family. She smiled at her father looking down upon her. White blonde hair and a deep set smile, mimicking her brother's features. In the photo, Valentine sat on the throne. A bejeweled crown rested in the sea of white hair. Her mother stood beside him, her hand resting against his shoulder delicately. A six-year-old version of herself was sat in his lap, red curls going haywire and tickling his chin. Her brother stood on the other side of the throne, his head leaning against his baby sister and a protective hand around her small frame. She always loved that picture; less traditional than the other portraits painted of the royal families, however better, more sentimental.

She shook her head profusely. She wiped the dried tears from her face and cursed herself for the momentary weakness. She was determined. "There are five hundred and fifty years of Fairchilds on these walls, and I intend to be up there next to my parents. For Jonathan, who couldn't himself?"

* * *

Viscount Herondale strolled through the living room, a shot of whiskey in hand. The meeting had gone quite splendidly today. His boy would be on the throne in no time at all.

"You, my boy, are a true born Idrisian," the viscount grinned. He regarded the son he'd groomed so well since his wife's passing.

His son shared the same glint in his eyes. The same air of confidence and the same smirk as he nodded, "I agree. But how can we make it happen?"

The Viscount took the darts from his son's hands and made his way slowly towards the board. "Let me show you a trick I learned from an old philosopher, Jonathan Shadowhunter. It is guaranteed to help you hit the bullseye every time."

The direction Jace's father was heading was unclear until his father let out some type of battle cry. The man ran towards the darts board and lodged one dead center.

"Yes," Jace exclaimed, as he un-lodged the dart and handed it back to his father. "But that is cheating."

He watched as his father grinned wickedly. The corners of his mouth upturned in such a way that Jace had never seen before, and wasn't sure he liked.

"Precisely."

* * *

"Lord Jace has arrived, with that snake of a father." Luke informed Jocelyn as she was headed down the staircase.

"Behave," she reprimanded sternly, yet he knew she was joking when a small smile displayed across her lips. "I want everyone to be on their best behavior."

She met her daughter at the bottom of the steps and kissed both her cheeks. "Clary, darling, you look wonderful. Very appropriate for meeting the viscount and his son."

Clary groaned as her mother fussed over her, straightening the pink blazer and matching skirt she was wearing.

"I can't believe the Clave invited the man who's trying to steal the throne to stay at the palace with us!" Clary huffed in frustration. She turned to a nearby mirror to put on her earrings while her mother fixed her hair.

"Oh, the Clave didn't invite him, I did," her mother shrugged nonchalantly and walked away.

"It was you?" Clary started her rampage, running to have to catch up with her mother. Her mother had always been willowy and tall, whereas Clary found herself short and cute. At eighteen, you were supposed to be beautiful, not cute as a button; which Isabelle had referred to her the other night.

"I offered to hang him by his toes in the front courtyard," Luke grumbled as he came around the corner with a peach-colored coat, which he helped Jocelyn into.

Clary raised her eyebrows and motioned at Luke, "I like his suggestion. What about Luke's suggestion!"

"If there's any funny business," Jocelyn explained, "I want it right in front of my nose."

"I so don't want to be nice to this guy, you know? When we were ten, he was rude, self-centered, and arrogant-" Clary was more than ready to list twenty more adjectives that could perfectly describe the kid she'd once known when Jocelyn rolled her eyes at her daughter and out a stop to her rambling.

"Well, have you seen him since you were ten?" Jocelyn questioned.

Clary thought for a moment before responding reluctantly, "well, no. Not since his mother died."

"Me neither."

The conversation was halted for a moment in memory of Céline Herondale, who Clary had always liked.

"But out of nowhere, he just wants to be king of Idris?" Clary wondered. She spread her arms out and gave an incredulous look at her mother. "What is that about?"

The queen sighed at the dramatic antics of her daughter. She took Clary's hands and brought her to a luxurious sofa where they both sat. Clary relaxed into the plush cushions and took a deep breath, something she hadn't realized she needed.

"We will be charm itself. Nothing less than grace and poise. We'll show the people of Idris who deserves to be queen."

The two women locked emerald eyes and Clary knew instantly that she couldn't let her mother down. For the sake of her mother, her father and Jonathan, she would become queen. No one would stand in her way.

"Presenting Viscount Herondale and his son, Lord Jace."

Clary's head spun towards the doors as they opened, revealing the clean kept man she'd seen that morning in the boardroom. It took every ounce of fiber in her to keep from running towards him and spitting on his shoes. Her mother dragged her over towards them, despite her refusals. It was then she saw Jace. Her eyes widened with shock. She ripped her wrist out of her mother's grasp and her body went still.

It. Was. Him.

It was the mystery guy from the other night. His hair was slicked back with some kind of gel, and he wore an immaculate suit; black as midnight and tailored to the Angels. Her eyes wandered over his body, betraying her mind. She couldn't help but stare at his beautiful honey curls, chiseled jaw and sharp features, and the golden orbs she'd found herself gazing at more than once the night before. She noticed that his eyes were scanning over her as well, and she wasn't sure whether to be flattered or disgusted.

He was effortlessly gorgeous she had to admit, whether Clary liked it or not. She didn't... by the way.

Just because he was insanely attractive, didn't mean she had to like him, Clary had decided.

Pretty boys were always distracting, and arrogant, she found. They reeked of self-confidence and she had no doubt they'd break your heart in an instant if they pleased.

The queen gestured to Clary, who stood beside her shell shocked. "May I present my daughter, Clary."

The queen was finished exchanging niceties and had discreetly nudged Clary to do the same. She reluctantly let out her hand towards Jace.

"It is quite the pleasure having you stay at the palace, Lord Jace," Clary said in a courteous manner that she couldn't tell was sincere or not. To be honest, she wasn't sure her feelings of him staying at the palace; always around.

The sardonic young devil kissed the back of her hand, a pleasant burning sensation etched into her skin by his soft lips. "The pleasure is all mine."

She couldn't quite pinpoint what had thrown her over the ledge. Maybe it was the way his lips rose into a smirk or every fiber of her being remembering his behaviors when they were young. All she knew was a dirty little plan had clicked, and her etiquette was carelessly thrown out the window like an old rag.

Clary refused to meet Jace's eyes. She clicked her tongue while her eyes wandered to every possible surface except for Jace. "Clary..." her mother said sternly.

Clary blinked multiple times before her trance was broken. She painted on a fake smile that she knew she'd become accustomed to soon enough, and stepped toward the boy she hadn't seen in eight years.

"Why, Lord Jace, it's been too long. Hasn't it?"

Before she could reason with herself, she jabbed her heel into his foot, satisfied when she heard him groan in agony on the behalf of her kitten heels.

"She seems to make it a habit of stepping on my toes," Jace gritted his teeth while reassuring the staff with a painful smile as they rushed to his aid. Clary didn't hear any more as she stomped away from the scene, her mother would be chasing after her soon and she needed to make her exit quick. The last thing she heard was Jace grunting, and refusing help as he hobbled out of the entryway.

* * *

"Way to go, Biscuit!" Magnus cheered as Clary retold her side of the events that had occurred a few hours earlier. Magnus lounged on a tawny cushioned love seat; settle back as if he owned the place. His sparkly blue vest paired well with his matching blue eye shadow, his hair unruly and swayed from side to side.

His eyes hinted utter amusement, as he re-imagined what his friend voiced. Sapphire glitter was shaken off his clothes as he laughed, the vibrations sending them spiraling through the air. She knew they were now permanently embedded into the furniture. She wondered how Magnus's maids kept up with him. They must've concocted a special glitter remover...

"I don't know, my mother was pretty pissed," Clary recalled. She tried to keep her jitters at bay by biting her lip and twiddling her thumbs back and forth.

Magnus snorted. At least he was enjoying himself. "Not as pissed as Viscount Herondale, I hear. The maids claim they could hear him rambling up a storm all the way from the kitchen, on the other side of the castle!"

Clary flopped onto her plush bed with a groan. Regret pooled into her veins as she mentally smacked herself. "This will make life more bearable, that's for sure," she grumbled, sarcastically.

"Don't feel bad, Clare. Remember that he's your competition now. A Herondale hasn't been on the throne in over six hundred years. What right does he have to the throne, anyway?"

"Agreed."

Izzy entered with a grand entrance, per usual. Clary expected nothing less as she carelessly swung open the double doors and pranced inside, looking as gorgeous as ever: tall and slim, with slick, ink black hair that flowed down her back like a river of dark poison. Her makeup was effortlessly done and her pale long sleeve pink top made her look delicate, whereas her skirt contrasted with a slit that slid up her thigh. She made her way over to the princess and plopped down onto her stomach, and her face was inches from Clary's.

"Isabelle-" Clary was more than ready to stumble out apologies when Izzy shushed her. No hint of malice was hidden in her golden flecked eyes. If not peered into in direct sunlight, her eyes would resemble the sea of black that fell from her head.

"Jace may be like a brother to me, but that's no excuse for what they're doing to you. Viscount Herondale had developed a bone for evil when his wife had died. Céline dying was unexpected and tragic, I understand. But it's no excuse for the viscount's behavior and Jace following him around like a blind puppy dog is not any better."

Izzy readjusted herself so that she lay on her side now, her arms bent and her head resting against her hand.

Clary mimicked her position; lay on her side opposite from Izzy. If the two hadn't looked so different, Magnus would've thought he'd been staring at a mirror.

"What do I do then, Iz?"

This was what prompted Magnus to rise from his chair and stand before the two girls. It may not be the most favorable conclusion, but it was better than that Herondale on the throne. He may have promised to Alec to try and get to know Jace, but this was his little secret. His friend was in need, and he couldn't deny his princess.

"You have thirty days to marry. The Viscount doesn't believe you'll go through with it."

Clary nodded her head in agreement, willpower behind her eyes so strong that Magnus had seen only once before. Jonathan.

"I can't let my mother down. But I've never been in love! I mean sure, I dated a guy or two in high school but I would hardly call that love. Who could I possibly chose to spend the rest of my life with?" She looked to Magnus for answers, and answers he supplied.

"I've got it all figured out, Princess." He smoothed the frizzy red hair atop her head until it looked somewhat presentable again. He took Clary's hand and jerked her up, earning a mangled noise of surprise. He did the same to Isabelle, who was more prepared than Clary. With the two girls in tow, he hauled them out of Clary's chambers.

"Let's go find this Biscuit a husband."


	3. Matchmaker, Matchmaker

**I decided to post a bit earlier this week, since it was my original idea to post on Mondays and seeing as it's Saturday. Though, why not? This chapter's a little shorter but it's a key one seeing as it will set up the rest of the story. I will have my new chapter up within next week, so stay tuned. I don't own the Mortal Instruments because the lovely Cassandra Clare owns that title. Now, without further ado...**

The room was dimly lit, the only light casting from an ancient looking projector Izzy had managed to scrounge up; illuminating the chambers with a whitish glow. The room now resembled a movie theater. Recliner chairs and la-z-boys were arranged in a row, all decked with fuzzy gray blankets that were silky to the touch, and dozens of warm toned throw pillows. Clary was still clueless as to what her two friends had planned-they'd parted ways a couple of hours earlier to plan. She did have a hunch as to what it was about, and she couldn't say she was excited.

Simon was seated in a warm brown la-z boy, clad in a dusty gray Star Wars shirt that had two light sabers crossing each other-one blue and one red-with the quote in large white font 'May the Force Be With You'. She'd led Simon to his discovery of Star Wars a few months after she'd moved to America. It was safe to say that Idris was a little behind times, because Simon was flabbergasted at the thought of not seeing the movies sooner. It was a thing they shared, and she was grateful for it. Even if no one in the country understood the odd catchphrases his t-shirts displayed except for her.

Clary plopped down into the seat next to Simon and gave him a quizzical look- who was too busy shoving his face with cheddar popcorn to notice- as Isabelle and Magnus came into the room followed by the Queen. He noticed her curiosity after the entrance of his girlfriend, and just shrugged as the queen offered the same look of uncertainty. Magnus chose to sit beside Clary in a leather reclining chair, thought it was set all the way up and the Queen opted for an armchair a little ways to the left of Simon. Once Isabelle was satisfied with the level of attention she was receiving from her audience, she sat down in a big chair and curled into a blanket. She clicked a large button on a remote she held, and waited patiently as a slideshow gradually appeared.

"I have gathered with the help of Mags, a list of eligible bachelors suitable for-" Isabelle barely had a chance to explain before Clary cut in, dismayed.

"How do I chose who I want to marry after looking at a slideshow? Researching someone and who they really are is totally different."

Magnus placed his hand gently on her shoulder, and gave it a small, reassuring squeeze. "Izzy's not asking you to choose the first guy that'll pop onto the screen. One date couldn't hurt though, right Darling?" His deep voice was assuring and she willed herself to calm down. She took a deep breath and sighed, before quieting down.

"You're right, M. Thanks for putting this together, Iz."

Isabelle winked her eye at the princess- which sparkled even in the darkness, with only the illuminated screen as light. Clary reached over to grab some popcorn from Simon's bag against his protests and settled back as the stream of guys flooded the screen.

"Baron Sebastian Verlac."

A devilishly attractive man appeared on-screen, with striking black eyes and hair to match. He wore a conceited grin that reminded Clary all too much of Herondale, and a tailored suit paired with a deep red tie. His head was slightly tilted to the right, and his eyebrow was raised as if challengingly.

"He's..." she paused, searching for the right word to describe such a man, "decent." She pondered his picture, while reading the information to the left. He was roughly her age, and his credentials seemed good. Graduated near the top of his class, and his looks were a plus.

"No, no," her mother protested. "He's got a history of violence and he's a suspect in numerous murder charges. Definitely not appropriate."

Clary and Izzy both shuddered before Isabelle flicked the slideshow to the next option.

"Oh yes, absolutely yes!" Clary cried as the face of Prince William popped up. His smile showed his pearly whites and his blue suit was perfectly tailored, and contrasted with his blonde hair.

"Sorry, Clare, but he's not eligible. He's in line for his own throne," Isabelle delivered sadly, before turning her attention back to the beauty on-screen. Clary pouted in protest.

"Why was he included then?" Simon wondered, now seemingly bored because his stash of popcorn had run low.

Magnus sighed and stared dreamingly at the image, which Clary, Isabelle and even Jocelyn couldn't help but reciprocate. "He's just so great to look at."

The next photo was of a thin, lanky man and showed his whole portrait, whereas the others were from the torso up. He stood in a beautifully lush golf course, with a club swung over his shoulder.

"He seems nice," Clary interjected, seeing as Isabelle was about to skip over him.

"Raphael Santiago of Spain. No title, but good family," her mother agreed. Clary couldn't find anything wrong with him, maybe he would be worth a try.

Simon gave the image a once over before turning to Clary, his interest peeked, "What about the title of husband?"

Isabelle jerked her head towards Clary. "Yeah!" She said enthusiastically. "He seems cute." Which earned a small glare on Simon's behalf.

Just as her hopes were risen, they were shot down by Magnus. "His boyfriend seems to think so as well."

"Right on," she murmured. The room was starting to heat up, and Clary used her hand as a fan before she took the elastic from her wrist, and threw a messy bun atop her head.

"No matter," her mother waved a hand without looking away from the screen, as if entranced. "Put him on all the invitation lists for parties, he's a divine dancer."

She sighed when the next few men all had something that she wasn't sure of. They were either too old, too young, or just weren't the suitable choice to run a country. And if not something wrong to her, then certainly her mother and friends had something to say in the matter.

Her mother had risen from her chair to pace around the room, and ran a hand through her fiery locks. "We need someone to help you run a country without ego getting in the way. Someone attractive, smart but not arrogant. Someone with..." Jocelyn paused behind Clary's chair and tapped her fingers on the arm rest before stumbling upon a word, "compassion! Someone like-"

"Someone like him?" Clary asked, pointing at a young man in an army green corduroy jacket that was embellished with medals on the sleeves. His brown hair resembled more of a mop on his rounded head and his eyes were deep set and smiling. Isabelle let out a squeal of delight.

"He's the one!" she gawked, pleased at the discovery of the man. "Nicholas Alderhart, Duke of Broderick. He's studying to be an anthropologist, loves photography and he served in the Royal Air Force for a while. Clary, he's great!"

"Hmm." Clary had to admit, there was nothing wrong she would decipher right off the bat. She didn't know if he'd be the one she'd end up marrying, but it wasn't like she'd have much of a choice. The days were slowly starting to tick by and soon, they'd be gone through her fingertips if she didn't do something about it. She swallowed her pride and mustered a smile. "Alright, I guess he's the one," she concluded.

* * *

Nicholas was flown over from where he'd been living in England within a day, and throughout the week, the pair had gone on multiple dates. She'd learned that he'd been raised in Idris, but had moved to Britain a year ago to start his studies at Oxford, which Clary had to admit, was quite impressive. He seemed really sweet, and Clary hadn't found any faults so far.

They'd had a picnic on the beach, which would've been nice had it not been for Luke and the rest of the royal guards trailing her every step. Her mother and his parents, Lucille and Kirk, were also accompanying them a few steps back. Clary only wished for some privacy. She found it awkward getting to know a future companion while in the presence of a parent or two; if you counted Luke, as well as the whole crew of Lunch with Lydia, a popular gossiping show in Idris. They'd eaten finger sandwiches by the brilliantly blue water, waves lapping calmly and the salty air stung her nostrils. He'd taken pictures of her with his large Nikon camera of his, which was swung around his neck. He'd claimed that he always had that thing around, and afterwards, she'd even given him a peck on the cheek.

The other dates went similarily; him being extremely generous and caring while she tried to keep up his pace. They'd played tennis at Izzy's suggestion, which Clary inwardly groaned at since she'd never been good at sports. Her lack of athletic capability was only proved correct when she'd landed wrongly on her ankle. He'd iced her foot instead of her maids, since Izzy had held them back and gave her a wink. _Bond_ , she had mouthed.

Now, they were headed over a small bridge that had been build over a pond in the gardens. The roses were in full bloom and the air was filled with the sweetness of nectar and summer. Jace had been sitting on a bench not faraway, and had glanced up. Their eyes met for an instant before he rose from the bench with a sour look on his face. He stalked off, grumbling on about how he had no privacy to read his book. She sighed in frustration. She hadn't seen him much since he kept mostly to himself and they'd hardly exchanged glances. The castle was big enough, surely there was at least one decent spot where he could read his book.

Nicholas led her to a bench that was shadowed by an enormous tree, leafy with curly and wavy patterns carved in the bark.

"Every marriage in my family for the past two hundred years as been an arranged one."

"Please try to talk without moving your lips as much." At his confused expression, she gestured to the gates a few yards behind her. The reporter of Lunch with Lydia, and her crew stood at the gates. Lydia Branwell held a microphone in her hand, speaking animatedly to a video camera and pointed back to where Clary and Nicholas sat. "They have binoculars, and cameras. Most likely live right now."

He nodded though she wasn't too sure he'd heard her. His hands trembled lightly as he took hers, "I would like to give you something."

She waved him off, though she smiled at his gesture. "There's no need, really. My birthday was last week-"

By the time she'd started talking, he'd already pulled out an object from his blue collared shirt pocket. Clary frowned at the foreign object before realizing what it was. "A film cannister?" She looked up at him, expectantly.

"Why don't you just open it?" At his suggestion, she rattled the canister and heard a noise from the inside. She raised her eyebrows in surprise and dumped the contents into her hand.

 _It was an engagement ring._

Beautifully gorgeous, glistening in the sun and nearly blinding her.

 _What a rock_ , she thought in awe.

She'd never been one for jewelry, but she could get used to this. Even though her finger would no doubt be exhausted after a few seconds of having that bad boy on.

"It was my great-grandmother's," he explained as she admired the exquisite details. "Passed down from generation to generation. Sort of a symbol for good luck in our family. You know how Idris likes tradition," he chuckled.

She held out the ring to him. "Do I have to put in on myself?" She prompted, and he shook his head. He glided the ring onto her finger with ease and she held his hand grasped between hers. This was the person she was going to marry. She should be ecstatic, though the only thought that ran through her mind was how pleased her mother would be. And how Idris would stay under her rule.

* * *

"Father, I hate to say this... but you were wrong," Jace sauntered around the Herondale Manor's living room, after hearing the news from Alec. His father rested on the sofa before him, two fingers pressed against his right temple and his eyes furrowed in thought. "Princess Clarissa has managed to find a husband within a week."

His father raised one bushy eyebrow, slightly taken aback. He showed no other emotions, though he was feeling a little uneasy and distraught on the inside. He hadn't anticipated a move so quickly on the royal's account. He needed to be calculating, for this was no longer an amateur's game. He needed go be always planning one step ahead. _The way to have power is to take it._

 _"_ Princess Clary can't possibly be happy with the idea of an arranged marriage," he concurred, which was true. The princess was stubborn and headstrong; like her mother. He remembered when Queen Jocelyn took the thrown, the only way she complied to an arranged marriage was because it was her dying father's last wish. Yet she didn't go down without a fight. And neither would her daughter. He took a good look at his son, before concluding, "Your task is to romance her."

It was Jace's turn to raise an eyebrow. A skill he'd mastered over the years and had noticed that the princess could not do, no matter how hard she'd tried. He resembled an exact replica of a young Stephen Herondale, and he wasn't sure whether that was something that pleased him or not. "Romance her?"

"Show her what a real relationship is like," his father continued, his voice rising as the idea fully developed. What a pleasant idea that was. His son was charming, albeit somewhat conceited. He's noticed all the young girls stop to gape as his son walked through the town square. Sooner or later, Clary would be the same. One of those gossiping girls who only cared for their looks and boys. "One filled with heat and passion."

Jace rolled his tawny eyes and shook his head as if the thought amused him. He sat down on the couch beside his father and faced him, "and change her mind about Nicholas?"

"Exactly," his father's expression was smug and filled with self-congratulations. His boy was his ticket to power and money, the only thoughts that clouded his mind the past eight years. The Herondales were the rightful rulers, hell all of Idris knew it. The Fairchild line should've ended the second Jocelyn's father had died. If it weren't for her arranged marriage with Morgenstern, the Fairchild line would've ended and the Herondales-who were next in line for some godly reason- would've taken the throne. "The deadline would expire, and the throne is ours."

Jace furrowed his eyebrows at his father's eagerness. It was no secret that his father was power driven, even when his mother was alive and well. Though he didn't understand why his father wanted the throne so desperately. "You're sure this is what mother would have wanted?" Jace questioned, repeating the words his father had told him. The reason why this ruse had started in the first place.

"Why, of course!" His father exclaimed. "It was her dearest wish. One of the last things she'd ever said to me were: Help him, Stephen. One day, he could be King." Jace searched his face for insincerity, and after a while could find none, so he nodded reluctantly.

"I don't recall her ever mentioning it to me," he muttered in confusion, more to himself than anything. His mother always had secrets that he didn't mean to pry into, but if it had been something as big as this, surely she would have involved him.

His father patted him on the shoulder and sighed, "well you were only ten when she'd died. And you remember who she named you after, don't you?"

Jace was puzzled at this reasoning. Uncertainty washed over him, yet he kept his face blank. "Yes, Grandfather Jonathan," he said, as if it were obvious.

"No, no, no!" his father cried, waving his hands around in protest. He rose from his seated position and marched towards a portrait of a middle aged man with a villainous glint in his eye, which made Jace think that the man should've been stroking a white cat's furry head. It had once held a space in his father's study upstairs, yet a month ago had been relocated to rest above the black gas-burning fireplace. He pointed enthusiastically at the mahogany framed image before him, "the philosopher, Jonathan Shadowhunter. Power, my boy, means never having to say you're sorry."

 **And scene. Thank you all for reading and reviewing. Next week's though, will have much more Clace. Pinky promise guys! Anywho, I hope you enjoyed and see ya soon...**


	4. Clary Chases a Chicken

**There's more Clace in this, I promise, so hopefully I do them justice and it's not too bad. So without further ado, the story...**

Sketch. Sketch. Sketch.

Clary nestled into one of the bottom steps of the reflecting grand staircases in the foyer, cursing the hard surface yet grateful for a chance to really draw in peace. Her fingers practically itched to redraw all of her friends, after studying their faces for the past two weeks since her return. Isabelle's stunning beauty, which Clary always knew she had, Simon's unruly curls and geeky smile. Though her focus was short circuited, having drawn little to no inspiration in the past few days. She sighed, looking absentmindedly at the chunk of a diamond that sat on her ring finger.

Her wishes for silence were not complied when a whistle sliced through the air like a hot knife through butter, carrying a six note melody. She glanced up and saw Jace Herondale leaning against the banister, the source of the whistling.

"Are you having second thoughts?" Jace said, toying with her. He'd picked up on toying and teasing a while ago and Clary assumed it was now his favorite hobby; messing with her head.

"On the contrary actually. Can't I admire this beautiful ring. It was Nicholas' grandmother's by the way," she shoved her hand towards Jace's face for him to see, which her mother would have scolded at, and replaced her irritated frown with a smug one.

She had risen from her seated position when Jace had arrived, and was now making her way up the stairs. "You know he really is romantic..." her voice halted when Jace followed her up the few steps. She spun around to face him in surprise, before being encompassed between his two arms, who were now resting against the banister behind her.

She broke through the confines of his arms and scurried towards the other staircase across the room, "well, it was nice chatting but I really must go see to some wedding details."

Whatever he sought her out for, he was stubborn to refuse. He'd began walking up the steps of the staircase she'd just left, as she was marching ip her own. It was as if they were playing a game of Shadow, or Big cat, Little cat. He was mimicking the direction she was heading. She stopped midway, to which he did the same.

"I'm terribly sorry, but is there something I can help you with?" She demanded irritated by the conceited smirk, which had grown to him like second skin.

"No, no. You _are_ the one who stomped on me with you big feet while we were dancing."

Clary gasped at his statement, "I remember you recalling my feet little, which is not something I would like to discuss."

"Well, maybe I changed my mind," he said, which earned him a scoff from Clary. They glared at each other in an unspoken staring contest, each of the daring the other to blink when Clary snapped her head away and huffed, before continuing her path up the stairs in a frustrated march.

Clary was at the top of the staircase when Jace spoke next. He cut her off from walking by before she could reach the corridor.

"Fine, I danced with you. Need I remind you, it was only a minute," he said.

"It was more than a minute," Clary grumbled, refusing to meet Jace's eyes while she gazed at every other available surface.

"Okay," he agreed, which Clary was shocked by. Though he'd only agreed to disagree, "a minute and a half."

"A minute and a half of lies!" Clary snit, clearly not impressed. "You didn't tell me who you were or you were trying to steal my crown."

Jace rolled his eyes before snapping back a sarcastic remark, "Wow, I must've had a momentary lapse of good manners. Usually, I tell a girl my whole family tree within the first minute. My bad."

"Well, aren't you just..." she tried to think of a word, yet her mind blanked. She curled her fist together in aggravation as well as scrunched up her nose, before side stepping around him and speedily walking down the hallway. She knew no doubt that Jace had followed.

"You want to know what else you were doing while doing that little lie dance of yours?" she demanded, looking back momentarily to see him run his fingers through his golden locks, and laughed.

"Lie dance? What's a lie dance?"

She groaned, embarrassed again by her choice of words or lack thereof. She wanted to bash her head against the wall.

"You..." she didn't have a clue what to say, frustrated to the point of invisible steam rolling from her ears. She clutched the handle of the door to her right and swung it open, shoving him inside before closing the door after she stepped inside herself. The room was dark though she could make out the gist of her surroundings. A closet. Great. She found a light switch beside her on the wall which she flicked on.

"A lie dance is not the point. The point is-" Clary didn't have time to finish her thought.

"What is the point?" He said, as his fingers brushed slightly against her ear, moving back over her shoulder and flicking the light switch off.

The only light streamed in from the small crack at the bottom of the door but she could make out Jace's figure within her personal space. She angrily flicked the light back on. They were children, always wanting what the other one didn't. Jace smirking and Clary huffing in protest.

"The point is tht I'm on to you," she growled, pressing her pointed finger onto his chest. "Oh boy, am I on to you, and what you're trying to do."

"And what is that exactly?" He asked innocently, though Clary knew he was far from innocent.

She leaned her face closer to his as she replied, "I think we both know exactly what you're trying to do." Her nose was basically pressed against his, and she couldn't help put spare a glance at his lips. Though she didn't really want to so that, did she?

Before her mind acted on something stupid, the door flung open, and they jumped apart like shrapnel. One of her maids gasped and dropped a sweeping broom onto the floor. Clary's cheeks tinted pink as Helaena retrieved the broom from the ground and wheezed, nodding at them both, "I'm terribly sorry princess, Lord Jace."

"No, Helaena," Clary said desperately, as her maid closed the door after them. She'd obviously interpreting the situation wrong.

Clary turned back to Jace and cast him one last glower before flying from the closet, to which this time he didn't follow.

* * *

"I'm told this Lord Jace is native to Idris," Luke reported his finding to Jocelyn as they walked through the famous hedge maze in the royal gardens; everlasting green shrubbery adorned with the roses of Idris. Early summer weather cast a wave of humidity in the air, and the queen fanned herself as they walked, questioning her choices of apparel at the time's being. "He is a gourmet cook, unlike Izzy if I may add-" which learned him a playful glare from Jocelyn, "he plays soccer and rugby, and is quite the ladies' man."

Jocelyn had already known most of this information, seeing as her and Céline had always been close before she'd passed, though the news brought to her next had her flabbergasted to say the least.

"She was in a closet?" The queen must've been hearing things. It sounded like her daughter was found in a closet with the Lord attempting to steal the throne. She gave Luke a quizzical look almost comical, eyes bug wide and forehead creased. He answered her fears with a simple statement.

"With him, yes."

It wasn't that Jocelyn didn't like Lord Jace, he was Céline's boy after all. She didn't appreciate how he'd been corrupted after his mother died, Stephen becoming power hungry and dragging his son with him.

"Luke, tell me honestly," she lead them to a bench hidden within the confines of the tall walls of green, located beneath a pear tree. She sighed as the tree blocked off the harsh gaze of the summer's sun and she rotated towards Luke, angling her knees towards his. "Does Clary have the makings of a queen."

He didn't even have to ponder before he had his reply, which Jocelyn smiled at. "Well she's young, but I've always believed in her, yes."

He said it with such certainty that the silliness was washed out her brain and into the rich earth. Her daughter may have been gone for the past four years, yet she was a royal Idrisian all the same. Jocelyn nodded, satisfied with his answers. This whole thing had driven words of doubt into her mind and she cursed herself for succumbing to them on occasion.

"The wedding invitations have been sent out," she continued in a cheery manner, directing the conversation to lighter news. "I really do think that her and Nicholas make a fine pair."

Luke mimicked her smile, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. "Yes, yes," he patted her knee, chanting his agreement as if only to please her.

"She's very set on it you know; not giving up the crown," Jocelyn exclaimed in her defense. "That's one thing I'll give her credit for, she'd stubborn as hell."

* * *

Over the next few days, Clary attended classes with her mother, where the queen groomed her as if she was gromming her prized cat, Church. She was retaught manners that she had never really used to begin with, and had gone through a series of painful bow and arrow lessons.

It was Idrisian tradition to shoot a flaming arrow through a ceremonial hoop on the eve of a royal's coronation, symbolic for lighting their own eternal flame. And surprise surprise, Idris could't give up tradition. She rolled her eyes at the thought, they most likely didn't plan for an nonathletic queen to give a go at it. She'd started about three hours earlier, where she'd then nailed the instructor in the gut with her ever so pointy elbow, and had shot the thing straight into a tree. After a while, she'd given up. The sun was too scorching to bear and the task at hand was one that she wasn't going to be accomplished in a day. It didn't make her feel any better when she'd seen Jace laughing at her from nearby. When they met eyes, she'd done the most sophisticated thing she could do- stick her tongue out at him comically and stomp away. To which he laughed harder. The short princess sticking out her tongue must've been quite a sight.

Now Clary was in her room, sketching away on some meaningless drawing of a rose, just to clear her mind from worry. She was determined to nail her archery lessons down pat. She wasn't about to look like a fool before being named queen of her country. They would take her crown away right then and there.

 _She may not even get the crown to begin with_ , her ugly subconscious sided and she grumbled in response.

She was snapped from her reverie when an impatient knock sounded from the door. Her mother stood in full queen armor- as Jonathan called it when they were younger- her crown embellished with golden jewels, she wore expensive jewelry that laid perfectly on her sharp collarbones and a floor length gown that stuck to every desirable crevice. Her hair was done into a low chignon, and Clary couldn't help but hope that she would be half the queen her mother was.

Her mother's gaze was stern. With eyebrows raised, she tapped her wrist impatiently at an imaginary watch, indicating Clary was late for something... but what? Clues snapped together, the date, her mother's extravagant get up. Clary's face widened as the time dawned on her.

"Mother, I'm so sorry. I lost track of time-" she was cut off by a frilly dress being thrown in her direction, which she desperately tried not to wrinkle her nose at in disgust. She had never been a frilly type of girl.

Her mother sped out of the room in a hurried frenzy and called back, "it's alright, darling. Just be down very soon."

Clary arrived in the throne room just as a crowd of people gathered in a line. The citizens of Idris were different in so many ways, yet so alike all the same. Most had ancestors from surrounding countries, and spoke those languages, for Idris had no national language. There were families, old married couples and children, girls the same age as Clary. They were all gathered from far and wide to have a hearing with their queen and princess, to discuss any problem they need assistance with. It was an event to show the people they cared, which Clary hadn't attended since she was thirteen. The people of Idris would discuss something with the queen. Her mother would help in any way she could, and in return they would bring something for the royal's table, like a cake or fruit. Clary had always enjoyed seeing her mother interact with the citizens, you could tell she really did care about her country. It was a thoughtful gesture to help them in some way, even if their problems were un-fixable.

It would have been pleasant, if not for the few noblemen sitting off to the side of the room as spectators. Among them, Stephen Herondale and his cocky son. She narrowed her eyes slightly as she saw him let out an exasperated sigh, Izzy chatting his ear off. She must admit she didn't hate the guy as much as she did before, though she would never admit that to his face. He'd take too much pride in it, smirk as if he knew it was bound to happen sometime. They'd had conversations every once and a while that weren't entirely awful, and most of the teasing never seemed to carry much malice anymore. It was more of an annoyance than anything.

He caught her staring, and had the audacity to wink at her. She whipped her head away as so he wouldn't see her cheeks burn into a blushing scarlet. It was as if he went out of his way to make her blush as much as possible, and Clary was trapped every time despite her refusals. She cursed herself for blushing too easily.

She felt a pair of eyes staring at her, and she looked over again to see if it was Jace. It wasn't. Isabelle, her dark haired friend gave her an inquiring look, as if wondering what all that had been about. Clary shook her head with adamant dismissal. Izzy's lips curled into a smirk at her friend's stubbornness. A little crush never hurt anyone. Though Clary didn't know that yet.

Over the next half hour, the queen held hands with the citizens as they shared their stories as Clary stood beside the throne, grateful she'd worn her green converse sneakers. They were hidden behind the confines of thick, poofed out fabric, so why not be comfortable?

"We will sent an adviser in the morning," Queen Jocelyn assured the man before her, talking his hands between hers and patting them. "They will asses the damage, and perhaps they can repair the well and save your farm." The man nodded in thanks and reached into his messenger back for a rounded melon.

"Here is something for your table," he offered. Jocelyn smiled and said her thanks before one of the staff members rushed the melon to a table set off to the side, now covered in bouquets of roses and organic food.

"You do this so well," Clary admired as the man walked away. "They just adore you."

"One has to be fair-" Jocelyn started the well-known mantra of her father, before Clary cut in.

"And very honest, yes. I remember." Clary was pleased when a satisfied grin replaced her mother's gracious one. She had never forgot the words of her grandfather, whom she never got the chance to meet yet mourned his absence every year with her mother.

"If you can't help, you have to show the people you care. Something to remember when you become queen," Jocelyn reminded her, sounding so sure. Clary was happy that her mother believed in her, that made one of them. Jocelyn brought her attention to Luke, and nodded to let him know they were ready for the next person.

"Citizen Bastien Rosewood," Luke announced a heavy set man with short blond hair parted neatly down the middle with gel, and blue eyes that gave Alec a run for his money, though Magnus would most likely disagree. He wore a dark brown tweed vest which reminded Clary of a high school teacher, who practically lived in the things, and held a blanket covered basket in his hands.

"Bonjour, madame," he greeted kindly, with a bow of the head and a jovial smile. His voice was burky and strong, laced with a thick French accent.

Clary curtsied in response, which she had done for every other citizen and he sat in the chair that was placed before the throne. Émilie, who Clary learned to be his eight-year old daughter, had been diagnosed with an illness that the Rosewood family did not have the funding for. Jocelyn had told him it was no problem, and had directed him to an adviser who was more than willing to supply a check. It wasn't something they did so often, yet he was a major supplier in harvesting crops and the royal family had more than enough money to spare.

"Merci!" He cried happily, and his eyes lit up in remembrance. He reached down to where he'd rested his basket and gently placed the hand crafted basket into Clary's outstretched palms. She returned his grateful smile, and was about to hand it off to Luke, assuming it was more baked goods, until a small _squawk_ bellowed into the throne room. It stunned the citizens, and nearly scared the living daylights out of Clary.

"May I-" she attempted to find her words, and gestured for the removal of the soft, baby blue blanket which covered the basket's contents from view.

The man nodded eagerly, "Bien sûre, she's my favourite!"

Clary's eyebrows knit nervously and she hesitantly lifted the covering, wincing in preparation for what would be underneath the fleece. Staring back at her with soulless, beady eyes the shade of obsidian and an inquisitive look, was a chicken.

"Oh," she sighed in relief, she'd known it must've been some type of bird, since what else could it have been. She reached into the basket to grab hold of the bird's torso before lifting her out. "A chicken."

"Clary, don't-"her mother's protests were too late, and soon drowned out by the crying of the chicken, obviously feeling violated by Clary. She clutched the chicken harder, which only made the wretched thing squirm more, causing Clary to drop it onto the floor. Madness ensued, a race against time featuring the chicken and the princess. She should've known this was bound to happen, no animals had ever really liked her. She cursed and grumbled as she was sent on a wild goose chase through the room, bumping into columns and people as she tried to retain the chicken. Her face burned into blotches of red that ran up her neck all the way to her tinted ears as Viscount Herondale burst into a fit of laughter. Could things get any worse?

She spoke too soon.

Even with sneakers on, which was leverage against her opponent, she was still clumsy as ever. As she clambered down a slick marble floors, she lost her footing and tumbled forward. Arms flailing and dress flying, she must've looked like a buffoon, not that she hadn't made a fool of herself already. She closed her eyes, preparing for an inevitable face plant. She could imagine the chicken laughing at her, and she was pretty sure she could hear the beast too.

Chicken-1, Clary-0.

It took her a moment to realize she was no longer falling. Her feet were who knows how far off the ground, and toned arms were wrapped securely around her body. She hesitantly opened one of her emerald eyes, and than the other. She found herself against Jace, his face inches from hers. Liquid gold flowed in place of his irises, glint with surprise and amusement all wrapped in. She gawked at the events that just occurred. Her mouth slightly parted, staring into his eyes as he gently placed her back onto the ground. She felt unstable, as if her knees were about to give out. Her let go of her hips once she seemed steady enough, and Clary found herself longing, and craving, for that touch to reappear. She remained shell shocked, planted against the ground, until a burst of applause sounded. People clapped and cheered, as if they'd witnessed an incredible spectacle.

"Looks like you fell for me-" Jace whispered low enough for only her to hear. The usual calm and collectiveness seemed slightly wary, as if he was as out of breath as she felt. "Literally."

Her heart was fluttering too fast for her to recognize how cheesy that line had been. She ducked her head to the floor, her pink ear an indication of how flushed she felt. She became very aware of the marble pattern on the floor. She frowned slightly, confused about what she felt. She raised her head to see Jace staring at her intently, and she felt even more bewildered as to why she weakened under his gaze.

"It appears I have," she murmured to herself in acknowledgement, not knowing whether or not Jace had heard, though praying he hadn't. Her heart was still pounding as though she'd run a marathon, which was physically impossible of her doing, and she was at a loss for words.

"I think you've had enough embarrassment for one day, don't you?" It was Izzy coming to her rescue, her knight in shining golden armor. Clary sighed in relief.

The room had become awkwardly silent. Izzy looped her arm through Clary's and quickly made a mad dash with her friend away from the scene of the crime, or more; the scene of mortification.

"Clary, a princess doesn't chase after chickens," Isabelle scolded mockingly as they were nearing the doorway, obviously finding amusement in her friend's humiliation.

When Clary didn't laugh with her, she bumped her hips against hers, "oh, it wasn't so bad. Jace caught you, didn't he?" To which Izzy found more amusement, wiggling her eyebrows suggestively at Clary which granted her a snort.

They reached the grand doorway, and the clinking of Isabelle's heels against the floor, as well as the squeak of her sneakers were droned out by discussion, and mindless chatter once more. The sessions had recovered, thank Raziel. She would hear an earful from Jocelyn later, no doubt.

The two guards situated at the entrance opened the doors with force and Izzy sharply turned the corner, whisking the two of them away without another word. She didn't have time to spare another glance at the throne room on her way out.

 **I'm sorry that this took longer than planned! Busy weekend and weekdays I guess. But this upcoming weekend, I have a long weekend off because of Victoria Day, so I will try my best to write more. Hopefully this wasn't too bad! If there's anything I can do to elevate my writing, please let me know. Just nothing too harsh, because I'm a wuss lol. Thanks for reading, and see y'all soon.**


	5. Ithuriel Is Scared Of Snakes

**I want to start of by saying happy one month to this story, lol, I just realized. Also, this chapter is significantly shorter, though I plan the next chapter to be significantly longer. Hopefully this isn't too short and will last y'all until the next one is written and posted. Hopefully this isn't too much of a bore, I think the next chapter will be much more interesting, in my opinion at least. Without further ado...**

It had been a few days since the "chicken incident" as Isabelle had dubbed it, and she was trying to avoid Jace as much as possible which wasn't hard. It seemed radio silence worked both ways. She was trying desperately to contain whatever attraction she held for him.

 _He was trying to steal the throne_ , she reminded herself.

She didn't think she could trust him, she _knew_ she couldn't trust him. Not yet, anyways. Whatever she felt was fleeting... right? It was some small crush; the kind where her ears flushed pink and her heart did little somersaults. She'd handled her small crushes decently enough during high school, this was just the same as always. Same old Clary crushing on same old boy. This wasn't anything special or out of the ordinary.

She'd tried spending more time with Nicholas, her _fiance_ she kept reminding herself. She liked him. She would even go as far as to say they were friends, which was extremely important to Clary especially since they were to spend the rest of their lives together. They were friends now, but as time passed perhaps their relationship would progress too. He was passionate about photography, and when they went on walks through the garden, she could tell he had an artist's eye like her by the way he examined everything around him as if it were incredible. She wouldn't say she loved him yet, though she hoped eventually. Was there a spark? She couldn't really tell.

On Clary's agenda today, was something she wasn't the least bit excited about. She stood in her room, listening as Jocelyn explained how the event would go down. She had never seen it before, the last one being before Jocelyn was proclaimed Queen.

Reviewing the royal guard was another tradition in Idris that the people refused to let go. It was an event attended by the whole court, as well as the troops. Clary must ride sidesaddle on her horse, while trying to pretend she knows a clue about the royal guard, much less reviewing them. It had become more of a customary thing as time passed, so long as she showed up and smiled that pretty smile of hers. Jocelyn had been preparing her daughter for weeks, explaining in detail. She'd chosen a deep blue, floor-length dress for her daughter to wear which contrasted beautifully with her hair.

"I can't ride sidesaddle!" Clary exclaimed exasperated. It was an extremely uncomfortable experience, one that she had become too accustomed to during her upbringing. She'd much prefer riding normally, though it wasn't seen as ladylike.

Clary stood in her room, dressed in her beautiful gown with many heavy layers and a matching sun hat, feeling ridiculous and soon to be fraught. Jocelyn began to shake her head and wave her hands around as if the idea was nonsense.

"No, no, dear. I can't even bear riding sidesaddle. It is acutely uncomfortable!" Jocelyn bent down to retrieve a slender shaped object that had been slide underneath her sofa, long and wrapped in a thick cloth-like material. She delicately placed it into Clary's arms.

"This is my riding companion," Jocelyn explained, unraveling the cloth. It was wood cut slender, carved similarly to resemble the shaped curves of a human leg. At the top, was a brown leather latch.

A wooden leg?

By the cheeky look set into her mother's eyes, Clary soon figured out the purpose. A wooden leg would be concealed beneath layers of tulle and satin. She could ride regularly, and her leg would be hidden by her dress. If she attached the wooden leg onto her saddle with a riding boot, she could pull it off.

"That...is surprisingly genius, mom. Did you come up with that by yourself?"

"Oh no, it's centuries old. If you slip the latch onto the saddle, add a riding boot and drape your skirt over the leg, nobody suspects a thing!"

Her maids had helped her prepare. She sat on a wooden block which mimicked a horse, with the saddle in place as if in practice.

Nothing should go awry, they reassured.

They would help her attach the wooden leg onto the saddle, and assure that nothing was suspicious. Maybe the day wouldn't be so bad after all, she'd thought. If only her maids had been right.

* * *

Viscount Herondale was up to no good.

He ambled towards a guard on duty, a little too casually. Shoulders back and free of tension, an all too joyous smile plastered on his bearded face and a hand in his pant pockets as he whistled the favorite melody of his late wife.

"Hello, young chap," the viscount greeted cheerily, though the guard became all too suspicious. He'd only been a royal guard for a year, in his late twenties with the face of someone much younger. Even after a year, he knew enough to know Stephen Herondale always had an ulterior motive.

"Viscount," the guard bowed his head lightly, not wanting to strike any deal. He was due any minute to accompany his boss, Lucian Graymark, by the princess' side as she rode on her horse.

"I recall someone mentioning that Princess Clary's horse, Ithuriel, is spooked easily by snakes," he prodded further. To anyone out of earshot, it merely seemed like a conversation between old friends. The viscount dug his hand into his gray coat pocket, and brought out inconspicuously a lanky rubber snake; scaly, green, and all too real looking. "I need you to dangle this in front of her horse, no one must know it came from me."

The guard was puzzled. What importance was it to sabotage some reviewing of the royal guard? And what was it that the viscount would gain?

"It's rubber," he stated.

The viscount rolled his eyes dramatically, clearly exasperated as he snapped snidely, "you're very observant. An everyday Sherlock Holmes."

"What's in it for me?" The guard asked, ashamed that he was contemplating. He needn't to know the Herondale man's ulterior motives, only his cut of the pay.

The viscount's eyes shimmered and he leaned in closer, whispering his last words very precisely for the guard to hear.

"You get nothing but my gratitude. When this all blows over, I will be King and I will be in your debt. Think what it could be like to have a King in your debt..."

The guard snatched the rubber snake into his hands without any hesitation or second thought, and strode towards the princess.

* * *

A fanfare of trumpets signaled her cue. Two rows of guards were lined on either side of her, all dressed in pristine black uniforms with medallions dangling from their shoulders in honor. A young guard guided the reigns of the horse as Luke walked beside her. She felt awfully silly, smiling a fake smile and nodding at the guards as she rode by on her horse. She knew very little about the tradition, and the royal guard though she knew it was a sign of gratitude and respect.

So far, her mother's trick had worked. The wooden leg was in position, and it really seemed as though she was riding sidesaddle. Maybe she could get away with it...

She felt on show, with everyone watching. It seemed as though she kept making a fool of herself in one way or another, and she was determined for smooth sailing this time around. Dozens of eyes burned holes into her dress, her skin, even her hat, like the stinging rays of the fulvous sun. She saw Isabelle, her mother, Simon, Alec, Max, Nicholas, Jace... They made eye contact for a split second, before Clary's ears started to turn pink on schedule and she diverted her gaze even though she could still feel his eyes clearly on her. Her spine tingled and she shook herself. Not the time.

She was almost at the end of the lines of guards before something went wrong. Her horse gave a restless whiny, followed by a scared cry. Clary was confused as to what was going on, why was her horse acting out all of a sudden?

She saw a slithery green snake on the pebbles below and realized she was done for. Her horse hated those slimy bastards with such a passion she didn't think possible for an animal.

She clutched to the leather reins tighter as her horse rose onto his hind legs, neighing in fright before returning to the ground and viciously stomping his hooves. Clary tried to calm Ithuriel by patting his silky neck, but to no avail.

"Clary, take my hand," Luke attempted to lift Clary from the horse, and in doing so, ripping the wooden leg from it's place on the saddle.

Clary's face reddened crimson red and she gasped, "Luke!" His face blanched at the realization of what he'd done, the humiliation he'd put her in on accident. "Clary..."

She couldn't hear the rest of his sentence. The sound of laughter was deafening and roared in her ears. It was the only thing she could hear. The menacing laughter, tunting her, reminding her that this would be a regular thing when she became queen. If...

On instinct to protect herself from anymore embarrassment, she flicked her wrists down, and the reins urged the horse to gallop. She heard her mother call after her, but all she focused on was the gaining speed of her horse and the tears in the back of her eyes threatening to spill.

* * *

Stephen Herondale cackled as Clary's horse rode off towards the stables, and Jace knew his laughter was more than those of amusment. He had orchestrated it.

"Father..." Jace said, voice stern and clearly lacking playfulness.

"Oh, come on, Jonathan! Surely you thought it was the least bit humouring," his father chided a reaction, which Jace was ashamed to give into.

"Maybe a little..." Jace admitted, sending his father into another set of wicked laughter.

"Though I thought you said that Herondales weren't cheaters."

The father sobered at his son's challenging, and couldn't help but think he'd raised his son well.

"Don't you recall we were to go at this Jonathan Shadowhunter's way, a little cheating never hurt anyone..." Which Jace knew was a hundred percent inaccurate, regarding the young princess who'd fled the scene just before.

"I just thought we should win fairly, with everyone's dignity intact," Jace said through gritted teeth, annoyed at his father's childish behavior, though his eyes displayed a hesitant gaze.

Stephen paused, his humor lowering and he straightened his posture, while clearing his throat. The viscount clearly wasn't pleased with his son's reaction.

"Don't tell me you're going soft, boy," Stephen was strict, and always had been. His way or the highway.

"No, but-" Jace began warily, though his father silenced him with one glade.

"No but's, Jonathan." The viscount looked across the field where Clary's horse had disappeared moments before, eyes squinting from the sun's bright glare and emotionless. The crown was so close he could feel it atop his golden haired head.

It was his. He knew it.

"We've already passed the point of no return."

Jace sighed, rising from his seat with the other nobles-who seemed to be at every small event held by the castle. His father had always been dramatic. He knew his father would no doubt start causing a ruckus in front of the other nobility, though he didn't seem to give a crap. He was across the stone trail where the horse had previously took off, when his father called out in outrage.

"Jonathan, get back here my boy. Jonathan!"

Jace ignored his father as he walked off to the stables in search of Clary.

 **Ooh, what's going to happen? The tension between Clace is slowly building I'd say. It surely won't be what most of you suspect. But trust me when I say, it might get a little dramatic... Hope you enjoyed, and see ya next week!**


	6. Those Pesky Details

**Sorry it took so long to update, but I plan to update twice this week since the next chapter is more or less finished as well. There's a little twist in this one, and I hope it's not too random! Anyways, without further ado...**

The stables were quiet. The horses, ranging from palomino stallions to spotted appaloosas, munched contently on the hay stacked high for them, and the workers kept to themselves. Clary was thankful for that as she rushed into the stables, where she dismounted her horse and took a long breather. Once her rise of her chest steadied from the furious frenzy, the humiliation tried to creep it's way back inside. She looked around the stalls for a pick, wanting to occupy her mind by cleaning her horse's hooves or maybe brushing his beautiful coat. Even that was disrupted as a stable boy came to take her horses reins. She wanted to protest, but no words came out. She didn't know if she could manage speaking without tearing, and she didn't want the poor stable boy have to endure her crying. So she watched as the boy guided her horse away, listening to the click clack of the hooves as the only distraction. When there was no more distraction, it was eerily silent. She hunched over and sobbed. She didn't know how long she'd been there, crying like that. Big ugly tears, with a sniffling red nose. She told herself to toughen up multiple times, though sometimes you can't will yourself to listen, even to yourself. Clary didn't even know how she'd gotten into a seated position on a wooden crate, though here she was. Maybe it had been hours, that she'd had her head in her hands. The clock on the wall had informed her it had only been a mere five minutes. She wiped her eyes, finding smudged black lines on her fingers.

 _Oh great_ , she sighed miserably.

As she was attempting to smooth down her hair, she noticed a figure at the door and jumped from her position on the crate. The sun shone behind the person, outlining the silhouette. She couldn't quite see who they were, that is, until they emerged from the shadows. Jace Herondale.

"You shouldn't hide," he said, walking towards her. He handed her a tissue, with which she wiped her under-eyes, and he stood across from her. "It only makes them gossip more."

"Go away," she said coldly once she guessed her eyes weren't as dark as a raccoon any longer. She was in no mood to talk. "For all I know, that was some trick you and your father schemed."

She'd expected a reaction, maybe even wanted one, yet his face was as calm as a summer's day.

"Just think, Clary," he talked with an air of mocking laced within his words. "One more leg and you could've easily outrun your horse."

She took a long, tired sigh before giving her best glare down. Her eyes were narrowed at the boy stood before her, and her lips were drawn impossibly thin. She was really not in the mood.

"Clary, I like you, I do. This isn't a personal attack on you as a person." He reached out to touch her shoulder, which resulted in an inevitable volcanic eruption, hot sparks of lava that flowed down her limbs from just one simple touch. She shrugged away.

"That may be so," she pondered, turning herself slightly so she was no longer facing him. She tried to occupy herself with the saddles, with frivolous tasks like straightening the crooked ones. She tried to pretend that none of this mattered to her at all, not really. Key words: tried to. "But it doesn't change the fact that you're still vying for the throne."

"Ah yes," Jace replied sarcastically, "that pesky detail."

She rotated on her heel to face him, who had taken a few steps back. She felt oddly pleased and upset at once.

"This is serious," she scolded, she had no energy or patience for jokes.

"I'm dead serious."

She stared him down, searching for any sign of otherwise and was frustrated when she found none. Clary's shoulders sagged and she sighed, before taking off the idiotic hat she was wearing and tossing it onto the dirt filled ground.

"Luke says you're father's a retched snake, what do you make of it?" she was surprised to have asked. She wasn't normally one to go around insulting people's fathers.

He was silent for a moment, and she was afraid to have offended him. She chastised herself. _Of course he'd be offended, it's his father._

"It'd say he certainly isn't right, but not entirely wrong either," he said with complete honesty. She had taken a few steps toward him without realizing, as if she was on a tether. His brows were furrowed, conflicted in the thought of what his father had become over the past few weeks. Had it always been there, and had awakened recently?

"What about you?" Clary asked, her voice raspy and uneven all of a sudden. She laughed a little, though it was dry and heartless. She hated her curiosity. She should keep her mouth shut. "Are you like your father?"

They were inches apart now, and she was staring up at him. He towered over her to the point which it was almost comical. He didn't hesitate to reply.

"No."

He leaned in. It was an odd feeling, to feel this way about someone. She had never really experienced anything like it before. Was she really about to do this? Their faces were so close that their noses grazed each others, and she could feel his warm breath against her lips. His vision danced across her features, her eyes, her nose, her lips. She felt like she was wrapped in a blanket that was his gaze, protective and unyielding, which left her shivering. His hand held the small of her back, and she was brought impossibly close to him. They were so close to each other that it was physically painful when their lips were still not connected. It literally ached. His strong hand went to clasp behind her ear, and was pulling her face closer...

"Jonathan!"

They sprung apart like shrapnel. Viscount Herondale had marched inside a few moments later, and eyed at them suspiciously. Clary was wide-eyed, she looked like she was a teenager caught kissing someone. Which wasn't far from the truth.

"Leave us, Jonathan. I'd like to have a moment alone with the princess."

Jace looked as though he was about to protest. His jaw was formed tight and he glared at his father. His expression deflated when his father's gaze was unyielding. his eyes said it all. _Go._

He met his eyes with Clary's, who nodded slightly. So he left, leaving her with a man she wanted nothing to do with. The viscount was wearing an old uniform lined with medallions and golden pins with engraved roses and rayed suns. His clothes were pristine, like everything else about him. That was right, he'd been an old war general. Clary had forgotten. She was about to murmur an apology when something caught her eye. It was the Herondale family crest sewn into the clothes. It was a brilliant gold, vibrant and bold. It stuck out like a sore thumb and she gasped before she could stop herself.

The Herondale family crest- or the family rune as most referred them as- was so familiar it punched her in the gut. She couldn't believe it. A diamond with two curved lines sprouting from the top. It had constantly reappeared within her drawings for the past four years, and she never understood why. She felt strangely far away, in an alternate reality which consisted of only her and her flashbacks.

Flashes occurred, her in the car, late at night. She was singing along with her brother to a song she couldn't recall, her father laughing at them jovially. The next, she was almost unconscious. Her brother was against her, his body limp. Glass had shattered through the window, and was lodged into his skin. Her father, thrown from the car like a rag-doll, dead on the hard asphalt. She heard a scream. Had it been hers. She had drifted away and when she woke, she saw a man. His face masked by an ebony hood. Though his smile showed, wicked and pleased. He was clad in all dark and he looked like an angel of death, coming to take her away like her brother and father. A grim reaper. The only distinctive thing about him had been a small, golden shape sewed into the chest of his coat... The same rune as the viscount wore at the very moment.

Her mind snapped and she suddenly had too much strength to contain. She whirled on the viscount, abandoning her seat upon the wooden crate.

"You," she shrieked, venom lacing every word that parted her mouth. She didn't even realize she was crying again until she could no longer see, her vision blurring. Clary hadn't even remembered she'd been in the car during the accident. How could she have not remembered?

"The accident that killed my father was no accident. You..." she sputtered. She couldn't keep one single trail of thought. She needed to express all of them at once and her brain failed when she it revealed she couldn't.

"You killed my father," she breathed, letting it all sink in. "You killed him... how?"

And to her surprise, his eyes glinted with amusement rather than guilt. His lips the hint of a smile rather than a grimace. He didn't confess, yet he didn't protest.

"You have no proof," he responded, his voice calm and almost bored.

He flicked off a non-existent piece of dirt from his shoulder and his eyes turned on her, now transformed cold and ferocious. "And even if you did, that brain of your is faulty at best. Who doesn't remember being present during an accident in which their brother _and_ father were killed?"

His words struck a core. His words held the truth. What kind of person didn't remember something like that?

"Who do you think the country would believe, little girl? A veteran war general like myself, or a lost little princess who hadn't been home in four years?"

She didn't know what to say. She was dumb-struck.

"My name is not little girl," she responded sternly. It was the only thing she could muster before she fled from the stables. As she brushed past the viscount, his touch was frigid as ice. She found her way to the castle steps, stumbling in her heels, wondering if any of that had actually happened, or if she had imagined it all.

* * *

"Unfortunate incident that," the viscount voiced, making his way up behind Luke, to which Luke snarled.

Luke was walking back after seeing Clary, and apologizing profusely. She had reassured him that he wasn't to blame, though it hadn't eased the guilt he had felt. Which is when the viscount had emerged from another corridor. Luke cursed himself for turning down that hallway, when there were dozens more leading to the same place he was headed. Luke had never been fond of Stephen Herondale, even during their years at school together. Stephen had always been a little too cruel, and his mother, Imogen, a little too much of a prude.

"Viscount," Luke commenced, ready to launch into a lecture. "You may not know what my job as the head of the royal security entails. My job is to protect the crown, and make sure no harm comes to them. When someone attempts to toy with their emotions..." The last part had been directed to Stephen.

"I think we know exactly how well you cater to the crown's emotions," Stephen grinned snidely, to which Luke wanted to growl. Stephen knew that a young Lucian Graymark and Jocelyn Fairchild had been dating once, way before her arranged marriage to Valentine. They would have married one day if it hadn't been for the arranged one. And Luke never had seemed to get over it.

"If you ever hurt either of my girls," Luke barked at the unwanted intruder,"then you'll answer to me. Any crimes committed against you and you'll do well to remember, I have diplomatic immunity in 47 countries."

Stephen's lips turned to a scowl and his voice had raised considerably. "Lucian, you will understand that fear is not in my vocabulary!"

It was Luke's turn to have the upper hand. "Perhaps," he said, pretending to agree before snapping at the viscount. "But it's in your eyes."

Luke now took the twisted rubber snake from his pocket, and slapped it over the viscount's shoulder. The thing now rested on the old war uniform like a sick dangling toy.

"You forgot something."

And with that, Luke stalked away, leaving the viscount with a slight tremble in his knees, and eyes enlarged with shock.

* * *

"Was I in the accident with John and Dad?" The question flew from Clary's pale lips before she could halt the train of thought. Her mother gasped, her teacup slipping fom the queen's grasp and shattered on the floor into a thousand fractals of once delicate white porcelain, transformed sharp and deadly.

It was later that day, and they had been having their afternoon tea, which had once again become somewhat of a ritual like they'd used to do.

"How..." her mother couldn't seem to form any phrases. Her eyes incredulous. "Who told you?"

Clary was about to reveal all that had happened, when she bit her lip. The maids were cleaning the mess, and the maids gossiped almost as much as the divorced mothers in Idris. She thought back to what the viscount had said. And he'd been right. No one in their right mind would believe her. She had no proof.

"No one had to," the lie tasted awful upon her lips, though she held through. "I had flashbacks that seemed to vivid to be an imagination and I connected the dots."

Her mother nodded, still struck with surprise. She must've thought that Clary would hve never remembered. Jocelyn took a long sip from her new teacup the maids had provided, and then proceeded to press against the corners of her eyes with her thumb and pointer finger.

"Mom," Clary said, hesitating now, "how did I not remember? What did you do to make me forget?"

Her mother sighed deeply before placing a warm hand against Clary's on the table. "The first few nights after returning from the hospital, you were having such horrible nightmares. You wouldn't sleep for more than a few hours and you'd always awaken with screams. I..." Jocelyn paused, knowing Clary wouldn't like whatever she said next. "I enlisted the help of someone. Of Magnus Bane. He created a concoction, a remedy, that would calm your nightmares and they eventually wiped your memories of the accident all together." Jocelyn winced as Clary's hands tightened.

"Magnus?" Clary wondered, disbelieving the information fed to her on a silver platter.

"He was only trying to help you, as was I. I thought that maybe it would be easier if you didn't know-"

"But that'd not your decision, is it?" Clary wasn't angry at her mother, not really. She just had an extremely eventful day, is all. Maybe she would be mad tomorrow, though today not so much. Her vision was clouded with only thoughts of her plush pillows, comfortable covers and sheep jumping over the fences that she had a sudden urge to count.

"Clary, I'm sorry."

"It's ok," she said, no energy to even stay mad.

"You're really okay?" Jocelyn seemed skeptical, clearly ready for her daughter to put up a fight.

She yawned. "I'm just tired, could we cut this short? I feel very drained."

Jocelyn agreed, giving her daughter a hug before leaving her to rest.

Clary sunk down into the warm and welcoming covers, wanting to never leave. The world out there had much more surprise turns than anticipated. She dozed off like a fatigued baby. It felt as though the events of the day were nothing more than a lively dream.

* * *

"Jace, I'd like to ask you a question," the queen said, making her way into the kitchen where Jace was stationed at the stove, sleeves rolled up to his elbows and cooking something that made Jocelyn's mouth water at the delicious smell.

He turned off the gears on the stove, lifting the burning pot carefully to pour the contents into two bowls. He slide a bowl gracefully towards Jocelyn, and handed her a spoon. "Sure."

"Why are you so against Clary being queen?" She questioned, ready to calculate his moves. She had wanted desperately to know, since Stephen had never voiced his problems with her daughter before. She had no indication that anything like this would happen, so when it did, it rammed into her side like a speeding train.

He took a pause before responding, taking his time to blow on the steaming soup and take a hearty sip. "My father believes that Princess Clary doesn't know the people all too well."

His face was emotionless, his voice unwavering. Stephen had taught him well. Jocelyn had always been envious of the way the Herondales could hide their emotions, no one knowing their thoughts unless it was what they wanted. "And you feel as though you do?"

"Well, I was born here. I finished schooling here. I am a true Idrisian," he stated, stirring his soup around the bowl without breaking eye contact. "To be quite frank, Clary left when she was fourteen, and it has been very little time since she's returned."

Jocelyn felt ashamed to somewhat agree with what he was saying. The slight nudge in her brain, pestering her. He's right, the nasty voices said. Yet on the other hand, her mother bear instincts were on high. She believed in her daughter, and she wasn't about to lose confidence just because a Herondale said otherwise.

"I for one, think that Clary would make an excellent queen. She's terribly bright, sensitive, caring-"

"I know that," Jace said.

She was sure it had shocked him more that her. Her eyes widened the slightest and the fingers clutching her spoon had almost lost it's grasp. He had frozen for a millisecond, almost imperceptible before he carried on as if he'd said nothing. "You do?" She inquired.

"Yes, I do," he admitted, lifting his bowl from the counter and turning to cleanse it in the sink with soap and now lukewarm water.

Jocelyn narrowed her eyes slightly, she didn't know what game he was playing at. She had no way to be sure whether or not he was being genuine, or whether or not he was trying to wind her up, to push her buttons. She hoped it was the former. Though, she could never tell with those damn Herondales.

"My take on it is," he continued, placing the dish into a drying rack before sitting back down at the stool at the marble counter top island, across from Jocelyn. "How does one care for the people when they do not know the people?"

Jocelyn took what he'd said into consideration, and concluded that it made perfect sense. Clary needed to develop deeper bonds with the people who she'd be leading someday, "Touché," she said, before finishing up her soup. "Thank you, Jace, you've been quite helpful today."

She rose from her stool, and walked from the kitchen with a small grin embedded onto her lips. She knew exactly what to do...

 **How was it? Was it good? Horrible? I plan on updating again in maybe two or three days so stay tuned for that. Tell me if there's anything I' lacking in the chapters that you want me to include. Am I adding enough Clace? I feel like I'm not but let me know. Until next time...**


	7. I Loathe You

**Two updates in a week! This originates from the one-shot posted on my page, though I've added things and have taken out parts that aren't helpful to this story. The one-shot is formatted slightly different and will still be posted. Anyways...**

"Clary's doing well," Jocelyn satisfied, chatting with Luke in hushed tones as she watched her daughter from a distance. "Some major mingling I see..."

Clarissa Fairchild strolled through the garden party her mother had arranged. The high nobility families of Idris had been invited to attend, most of whom Clary had been forced to exchange polite conversation with. She asked endless nobles about the state of their properties, listening to the endless concerns of not having enough land. There were a few nobles who she did like, however, and she asked them how their grandchildren were, and what they were up too. Even so, she was growing increasingly bored. She wanted to try her best. If the people of Idris liked her then she would have no problem becoming Queen, is what her mother had said. She was the rightful heir to the throne, after all, her brother dying years ago granted her the spot upon the throne. She was never taught how to become Queen. She had always thought that she'd be nothing more than a princess. Though she was determined. The bore of the party was weighing on her, yet she still tried her hardest. She wanted to prove that she could do it, and she hoped she'd make her family proud. Clary would be damned before that arrogant devil Jace Herondale took the throne.

The sun was at its peak now and the light shone down, seeming to make her hair appear as though it were engulfed in flames. She tried desperately to find Isabelle or Simon, though she knew after a while it was no use. Probably off making out somewhere, she concluded. She was happy Izzy and Simon had each other. If she couldn't marry for love, she was glad that they could.

It was either marry in thirty days or give up the throne to whoever was next in line, she thought bitterly, remembering the conclusion the Clave had come up with. It was a rather old time law, yet it was still the law. The law is hard, but it is the law. She rolled her eyes at the mantra that had been forced into her brain since birth. It was a load of rubbish if you asked her...

She found her eyes wandering to her fiancé, Nicholas Alderheart. His family was one of the higher nobility, after the Lightwoods and the Herondales but before the Lovelaces. She may have been forced into an arranged marriage, though she didn't doubt that she couldn't love him... in time. He was currently scurrying through the grass like a squirrel, snapping pictures of couples and families with the camera hung around his neck. Something she never seemed to see him without.

She let out a sigh of relief when she realized Izzy and Simon had made their appearance, engrossed in the variety of food at the appetizer table.

"Hey, Clare," Izzy grinned widely when the princess was close, looping her arm through Clary's. "Did you happen to see who is here?" Izzy swiveled them both around so that they were facing the direction of the party, and nodded her head into the crowd.

"Who?"

"The king wannabe with Lady Kaelie," Isabelle said, a slight annoyance in her voice directed towards her brother. It wasn't long before she knew who Izzy was mentioning.

Jace Herondale made his way towards the party, with a girl hooked on his arm. His hair glowed gold in the sunlight and Clary couldn't shush her mind thinking how good he looked in a suit. She quickly dismissed the betraying thought. Even from here Clary could see that the girl he was with laughed at his jokes a little too loudly and her dress was a little too revealing.

Clary had known him her whole life. He'd always been around when Izzy and Alec visited, which was basically every other week growing up. She had never been too fond of Jace, she had to admit, and she had a sneaking suspicion he wasn't too eager about her either. Jace Herondale was an infamous bastard, had she ever met one.

"Is that... is she his girlfriend?" Clary asked, trying to keep her voice normal as a lump started to rise. She couldn't think for the life of her why there was one forming...

"Lord Jace doesn't have girlfriends. Only dates," Simon stuffed the last of the crudités into his mouth, before rolling his eyes as he made his way up to them. "You should know that by now."

"Do you speak to him much?" Izzy asked, trying to be nonchalant, though Clary had a sneaking suspicion that corks were spinning in that beautiful mind of hers. Isabelle had been giving small hints for the past while and was flabbergasted when she realized Clary was more oblivious than she'd thought.

While Clary glared at Jace and his lady friend, Izzy couldn't help but wear a knowing smile. Of course, she knew that the two did speak. Her best friend and brother had been caught in a closet together once after all... She was aware of her brother's feelings for her best friend, despite either of them knowing it themselves.

"We... acknowledge each other," Clary made a face at Isabelle and the three friends laughed.

They chatted for a while longer, Clary not entirely there. She felt like she was floating high above on a kite, her mind elsewhere as she watched the party take place. Her physical was there, standing right in front of her friends as they joked around, yet her mind couldn't be any further away. Maybe it was on an island somewhere, stranded in the Pacific.

Suddenly a wash of emotion came over her that Clary couldn't explain. She found herself saying her goodbyes to her friends and calling out for Nicholas.

"Yes, Clary, coming!" he responded immediately, breaking off the conversation with Alec and the ever so glittery Magnus Bane, who appeared by her side like lightning. It had always surprised her how quick he could run. How he'd never done track astounded her.

He motioned his camera for Clary to see, "pictures?" She nodded even though she wasn't really in the mood, and hooked her arm through his. She found her feet carrying her in the direction of Jace and Kaelie. "Great. Let's go this way."

"Are you enjoying the party?" He asked politely. He was always so polite. Maybe sometimes too polite.

"It's a little tiring," she confessed.

"You've done very well, Clary. Very charming."

Clary forced herself to smile. "Why, thank you." She cringed at how formal and hostile she sounded.

Nic suddenly whipped out his camera, looking through the lens and instructing her to stop where she was. "The lighting is perfect, hold on," he told her, snapping pictures of her laughing at his eagerness.

"Stop..." she laughed playfully.

"Please just one more!"

"No more pictures," she said. She was glad that the hostility was gone. She did want to enjoy her time with Nic. She lifted her fan to her face and noticed that two people were trying to walk past.

"I'm very flattered, truly." She moved her fan to cover the lens of the camera just as the couple came by. Nicholas seemed then to realize the others and turned his attention off photography. He extended his hand to Lady Kaelie, "I'm Nicholas Alderheart."

"Oh, hello," she fluttered her eyelids flirtatiously, "I'm Kaelie Whitewillow, Lady Kaelie will do though."

"Kaelie and I were just discussing her latest achievement," Jace said, flashing her that smirk she had become accustomed to over the years. She wanted to slap it off his stupid face, or recently, kiss it... she shook her head. The sun was way too hot today, it was making her delusional.

Kaelie's cheeks tinted red, and she placed her dainty hand on his arm. "Jace, please."

"Why not brag about you? You're an amazing woman!"

Clary gritted her teeth before responding, "Maybe not everyone has as big an ego as you. Have you ever wondered that?"

It was meant to be an insult, though at her comment his smirk seemed to grow. He put his hand against his heart in mock offense, "Now, Clarissa. It seems that someone's a little snappy today."

"You know," she blurted, interrupting his cocky speech. "Jace, that Nicholas has a Ph.D. in anthropology. Do you have a Ph.D.?" She knew full well he didn't. Her smug expression lasted about a second before his mouth opened once more.

"A Ph.D., how fascinating!" He said, faking enthusiasm. "Well, Kaelie-"

"I'm sorry, Jace, but Kaelie was actually trying to say something before you so rudely interrupted. Yes, Lady Kaelie?"

Kaelie let out a slightly frustrated huff before turning to Nicholas. "Would you mind accompanying me to get a drink. For one, I'm parched and it seems like this is turning into a 'my horse is bigger than your horse' argument."

Nicholas seemed to sigh with relief. "Yes, of course." He gave Clary a quick peck on the cheek before taking Kaelie's arm, "excuse me."

Clary glared at Jace once their dates were out of sight. Her eyes double-crossed her as they explored his features. From his beautiful blonde hair to the stunningly gold eyes that left her breathless every time. There was barely a silence before he spoke again.

"Fantastic party you have here," he started. She wasn't sure if he was being genuine or not. Knowing Jace though, she assumed it was the latter.

"Yes, it is. Thank you," she responded politely, her etiquette training getting the best of her.

"You two make a lovely couple," he said, referring to Nicholas.

"Yes, we do."

"It's a shame you aren't attracted to him," Jace had said it so casually that it had almost slipped past her. Almost.

"Yes, it is..." it had registered soon enough in her brain and before she could respond, she saw him amble towards the hedge maze.

"You, get back here!" She nearly shouted, granting her a few confused looks as she chased after him into the maze.

"You can't just say something like that and walk away," she whispered accusingly. She looked over her shoulder to make sure they weren't being followed before turning back to the smug devil that somehow passed as a noble. "I will have you know that I am very attracted to Nicholas."

She almost cringed at the unconvincing tone in her voice, and almost again when she noticed Jace had picked up on it.

"Well obviously," he said sarcastically.

Clary scoffed and glared up at his smirking face. He was much taller than her, so she had to crane her neck up to look at him. She had to admit, being short definitely had its downsides.

"I am," she defended, deliberating further when she could tell he still wasn't convinced. "He's...we are perfect for each other. He understands me-"

"He understands you? Wow, what passion," he chuckled low, sarcasm always laced into his words. His eyes seemed to soften ever so slightly and he brushed a piece of fallen fiery hair behind her ear, almost subconsciously. His voice was quieter and hinted something else, "but I didn't hear you mention love."

It took Clary a moment to regain her posture. The places where his finger trailed against her skin still burned. She scoffed once more. "You are so jealous." She turned to walk around the fountain, hearing footsteps follow.

"Why would I be jealous of Nicholas?" Jace's sarcastic voice had once returned and Clary was starting to doubt it had ever left. "He's got to spend the rest of his life...married to you."

Jaw tightened and eyes twitching, Clary whipped around and did the first thing that came to mind; whack him with her closed fan. Her fan collided against his shoulder in a loud smack as she spat out, "I loathe you."

Clary gasped as Jace returned the favor, smacking his newspaper against her own shoulder. "I loathe you," he retorted.

Clary took a step forward so that her face was inches from his. She could feel his breath against her skin as she retaliated, "I loathe you first!"

It was then Clary realized the proximity of their faces. As if on instinct, she glanced at his lips. Plump, full, and oh so kissable. Before she could react any further, his hand came to the back of her head and his lips were on hers. She hesitated for a moment before she completely lost her sense, the only thing on her mind was how soft his lips were. She found herself wrapping her arms around his neck, deepening their kiss. Tingles ran across her skin as he slid his arms around her waist, pulling her closer. The way his body felt against hers satisfied her deeply, and she found herself praying that he'd never let go.

Her eyes widened then, her mind how grasping that her body had betrayed her. She broke off from him, stunned at what had just happened. "What, what are you doing?" she gasped for breath. She became more angered when he widened into a smirk at her response. "What is wrong with you? You can't just go around kissing people. Particularly engaged people!"

She pointed her finger at him warningly and turned away, heels clicking the ground as she marched around the circumference of the fountain. Her full intent was to put as much distance as she could between herself and Jace Herondale.

"You enjoyed it," he said smugly, trailing after her. "Want to kiss again."

"Well I. No, just stop trying to confuse me," she warned, almost begged him. She continued on her path, still winded from everything that had transpired between them.

"The only thing I felt was irritation and loathing." That was a lie, and both of them knew it.

"What's confusing about a kiss?"

She stopped abruptly, shoving her fan at his chest so he was a safe distance away from her. "You're just trying to make me like you so that I won't marry Nicholas and then you can take the crown!"

She gasped as his arms grabbed at her waist, tugging her close once more.

"Maybe... or maybe I just like kissing you," his golden eyes gleamed in the sunlight, catching Clary off guard. Her breath hitched at his smile, her fingers itching to draw him. She mentally slapped herself. One wasn't supposed to have thoughts like these to someone who wasn't their fiancé.

"You stay away from me," she shoved him before losing her balance. She let out a screech as she tumbled backward into the fountain, Jace toppling after her. She gasped, the lukewarm water soaking her. She wiped her eyes furiously and swam away when Jace attempted to grasp her wrist.

"You know what? I have an idea," she declared angrily. "I have a great idea. Why don't you go underwater, and I'll count to a million!"

"Be careful...Clary," she heard him warn as she stood suddenly. The fabric of her dress clung to her uncomfortably and the breeze chilled her. She made it a point to noticeably huff and she stalked off, not looking back.

She caught eyes with Izzy, who looked puzzled and wide-eyed, almost definitely seeing the princess enter the maze with non-other than Herondale himself. The look Clary gave told her to drop it for now.

Come to my room later, she mouthed. She knew Izzy had understood when she gave a faint nod, before returning back to her polite conversation with Aline Penhallow.

Conversation stopped as Queen Jocelyn took in the sight of her daughter, shoulders tense from being drenched in water. "Do I want to know, Clarissa?" the queen inquired, leaning in as not to humiliate her more.

"I don't think so," Clary muttered, stomping her heels as she brushed past her mother and Nicholas. She made her way up the stairs to the castle and huffed in memory of what just occurred.

She vaguely heard Nicholas say that he'd join her shortly but she couldn't bring herself to respond. Her face burned to the same shade as her hair. As she made her way to her chambers, all she could do so was try to ignore the pitter patter of her thumping heart, and the tingling sensation Jace's lips had left on hers.

* * *

It wasn't until she turned into the hall where Clary's room resided, and cornered in on the ivory white door, that Jocelyn Fairchild became livid. Her daughter's decisions hadn't always been the best, though they seemed to reach a steep decline before plummeting the past few weeks. The queen knew everyone was guilty of making mistakes, though she was starting to wonder if her daughter made a little too many...

"What were you thinking?" She burst into the room, pushing the doubled doors with a ferocity that she didn't think possible. She'd sounded harsher than she'd meant, and her daughter winced slightly when she realized usual melodic undertone of her mother's voice had vanished.

Clary was exhausted. Exhausted and damp. She'd changed quickly from her dress, which may never recover from its experience in the algae-filled fountain, and into warm pajama pants and an oversized hoodie that went to her mid-thigh. She laid on a plush love seat across from the TV and was flicking through random channels, angrily pressing down on the buttons. She wasn't paying the slightest attention to the screen. She wished she could. Maybe it would block out her mother's nagging.

"Coming out of a fountain, dripping wet, with a man who is not your betrothed," Jocelyn shouted, pointing condescendingly in a way all mothers did while scolding their children. Next thing Clary knew, her mother was marching to stand in front of her and successfully blocking Clary's view of the TV, who was currently playing reruns of some soap opera she had no interest in watching. Clary could almost picture the cliché steam fuming from her mother's nostrils and ears. She was already as red the ripe tomatoes Luke sometimes plants. "Hiding in a closet with the same man who is not your betrothed!"

Clary rolled from her side onto her back, her head hitting the golden threaded throw pillows at full force. She ran her small fingers through a portion of her tangled hair that dangled off the edge of the sofa, and she mentally reminded herself to brush the strands of fire before they became a ratted bird's nest.

"Do you think I plan for this stuff to happen?" Clary's voice was loud now, matching pitch with her mother's. "I lost it. Sometimes you just lose it!"

"Other people lose it," Jocelyn exclaimed, wagging her fan back and forth which caused it to open and close several times in swift motions. "We can't lose it. Royals. Do. Not. Lose. It! What part of the concept do you not understand?"

"I get the concept," Clary jumped in on her behalf. "The execution is... a little elusive."

She heard Jocelyn make the closest sound to a snort that she would ever come to because Jocelyn Fairchild did not snort. Everything about her was as delicate as a rose and as impeccable as the first snowfall of winter." You got that right."

Jocelyn sat tiredly on an armchair a little ways from Clary. Several minutes passed in utter silence save for the murmuring of the television, to which they weren't really paying attention.

"I'll try harder," Clary said at last with a deep sigh. "I don't know why it's been so hard for me to do."

Her mother reached over from her seat to pat Clary's head of flaming curls. "Try to get some sleep," she said worryingly. Jocelyn could see the dark circles under her daughter's eyes that were amateurishly applied with concealer, and callouses on her hands from late night sketches. "You'll want to look fresh for the parade tomorrow."

Ah yes, the parade; another event to gain publicity and win over the hearts of Idris, another thing to worry about. Clary didn't think she could handle anymore embarrassment on her part, and it didn't necessarily score points for the royal family either. Instead of responding, Clary simply nodded. It wasn't much, but it seemed to satisfy the queen.

"Goodnight, Clarissa." Sometimes her mother spoke so formerly it sounded as though she was speaking to a mere stranger, rather her own daughter. And with that, the queen exited her room, a bundle of luscious satin pink robes and a flash of auburn locks swaying from side to side.

 **And scene! How was it? I hope to post sometime next week with a new chapter, but we'll see. School is so draining these last few weeks and I have projects in every subject, but I won't forget this story. There's so mny other ideas I'd like to write after this one too. Until next week...**


	8. Orphans Rule For A Day

**It has been a hectic few weeks! My last day of school is this Wednesday, but I haven't been to school since exams ended. I hope to post more frequently for this story over the summer. I just had a little writer's block, is all. Anyways... onto the story!**

Clary awoke the next morning with under eyes shaded mauve from restless slumber, and an uncomfortable dress hung upon a rack for her to wear. It was the day of the annual Idrisian parade, something still fresh in her memory even after four years. She was excited to experience the festival again, even with her hair looking like a rat's nest and her inability to stop yawning.

The parade was an extravagant event. And an Idrisian tradition, of course. Citizens from all over gathered to watch the annual parade where the soldiers marched in straight, unforgiving lines, where circus acrobats contorted themselves in nearly impossible ways according to Clary, and a marching band beat their drums in rhythm with their own footsteps. Kids and parents littered the walkways with flags which flapped freely in the wind, the gossip show host Lydia Branwell brought her camera and crew which wasn't surprising considering Clary was almost certain she was going to embarrass herself. Nerves jittered inside her like pesky bugs, crawling underneath her skin like an impossible itch, traveling up her spine and through her arms. It wasn't that she'd do anything during the parade really. Her job was to sit beside her mother in a carriage- which would lead the parade aside from the guards who marched in front- and look pretty. Her mother hadn't said those exact words though she knew it's what she meant. That's where she was now, palms sweating bullets and nervously rocking from side to side.

"How are you feeling, Clary?" Luke inquired, moving to stand behind Clary on a small ledge on the backside of the carriage. His hands were gripped firmly onto the carriage near Clary's shoulder.

"Honestly, Luke, not so great." Clary was still feeling somewhat bitter towards her mother, and a little towards herself, at their fight the other night. Tension still ran high amongst them. She knew that her mother only wanted her to succeed, heck she wanted to succeed as well. It was hard not to feel cold when she hadn't even been back in the country for a month, and already her place as Queen was at stake.

"Would you feel better if you called me Lukey?"

She smiled at this. When she'd been younger, she had insisted calling Luke by that nickname and she could tell that he hadn't been too fond of it. It was sweet that he'd offered. She knew he was only asking to pull a smile onto her frowning lips.

"No... Lukey," she turned around to show she'd smiled, even if it had only been the smallest of ones.

His shoulders vibrated when he laughed, a gesture so bold that his whole upper body shook as well, "just this once."

She yawned, long and tired like a lioness ready to nap all day. She hadn't had any real sleep since before her plane ride to Idris. Staying up most nights past an appropriate time; using sketching as a form of therapy. She was too restless for dreamless slumber.

Sleep wasn't so much of a necessity anymore, more of a luxury she could barely afford, Clary decided.

Too many things had happened that she found herself losing sleep over; the arranged marriage, her father's murder, Jace. She found herself looking for him within the crowd and tried to hide her disappointment when he wasn't anywhere within her line of vision. She was being silly. He could be anywhere along the strip of rode the parade would go along. She didn't need her eyes on him all the time. Though she had a hard time reprimanding her wandering eyes of this fact.

She turned her head at the sound of heels clicking against the stoned road chosen for the course of the parade. It was her mother, looking stunning; though when did she not? Her hair was down, with intricate braids framing the crown of her hair. The sun illuminated her locks and the only thing Clary could describe it was this: a burning halo.

"Let's get a move on, shall we?" she ordered in the regal way her mother's voice always seemed to possess. No matter where Jocelyn Fairchild was, she could command the room with just one sentence.

"You're late," Luke said, though his voice had the air to it that Clary could tell he was joking. Jocelyn sat beside Clary on the cushioned carriage seat before lightly smacking Luke on the chest.

"Nonsense!" she proclaimed jovially, "everyone else is just simply early."

A trumpet fanfare sounded, carrying its voice well throughout the streets. Heads shot up in rapt attention as the spectacles started. Street dancers moving swiftly to the music in colorful attire, flags flapping freely in the wind. It was a beautiful day for such a festival. It seemed as though Idris had many beautiful days. They didn't always reflect Clary's mood, though.

"Good morning, Idris!" Lydia Branwell said animatedly, followed by a chorus of cheers from the crowd. She announced into a camera, which was broadcast onto a bigger screen further down the street. It was playing live on television for those in the country who hadn't come to see it in person. Though the streets were so full, it seemed as though many had shown. "We are in Alicante-the capitol of Idris- to witness the first annual parade in four years in which our Princess, Clarissa Fairchild, has joined us for this celebration."

Clary smiled at the cameras which were no doubt, pointed at her, and tried desperately not to showcase how uncomfortable it made her. She'd never been the biggest fan of publicity. She relaxed when the cameras focused back on the festivities. She waved towards the crowd, smiling and tilting her head slightly. Even when her hand started to ache with exhaustion, she kept ahead.

It's all about perception, she thought. She must seem likable.

She kept smiling until she found Jace within the crowd, where her smiles became timid. She cautiously waved in his direction; less friendly and more unsure. A familiar heat crept into her cheeks and she was glad the cameras weren't on her to witness how she'd transformed into a tomato within a few seconds. She didn't know entirely where they stood which left her uneasy. She couldn't deny that she had feelings towards him-though it was undeniably wrong- and she couldn't help but wonder if he felt the same for her.

He smirked at her, clearly noticing the flush of her cheeks and the way she reacted to him subconsciously. She wanted to hide behind a fan, and whack him with one simultaneously. Her timidness faded when she saw Kaelie Whitewillow at his side. It wasn't her place to be angry, she knew, but her face had contorted blank. She moved her head, trying to stay in focus when something caught her eye.

A little girl, with long blonde braids and a plastic tiara, was being bullied by two older boys. Clary noticed that all the children in front of that particular house had clothes that were sizes too big or small, and they were all cared for by what seemed like one adult at that time. An orphanage. The young boys were taller and stronger than the girl who looked no more than ten years old.

Clary remembered when she'd first come to America. At twelve years old, she was scrawny and unsure of herself in an unfamiliar country. The boys at her school made fun of her different accent, which to them had sounded thick and clunky, though the Idrisian accent was almost identical to the American. They made fun of her rust-colored hair, her carrot-sprayed freckles, the way her voice was tiny and insecure. It had been to the point where she had desperately wanted to change schools, crying constantly and never making friends. She had never told anyone this, except for Luke. Not her mother, not Isabelle or Simon, only Luke so he would allow her change of schools. After that, she'd been happy. Though the memory still stuck with her to this day, and to see that little girl bullied has struck a chord.

Clary frowned, her brows furrowing deep at the sight. They had time to pull her braids and snatch her stuffed animal when Clary couldn't take anymore.

"Stop the carriage!" she shouted. Without question, the soldiers yelled for the carriage to stop and she hopped out, her mother's protests lost within the rush of adrenaline that coursed her veins. She tried not to look enraged as she made her way towards the girl, who was now shrunk in fear. People craned their heads to get a better look at what was going on, and Lydia Branwell was announcing every step into her microphone. Clary tried to block it all out. She put on her warmest face possible before crouching down in front of the small child.

"Hello," she said, in what sounded like more of a whisper than anything. She wanted the girl to trust her, and Clary thought the way to it was hushed tones. "What's your name?"

The girl glanced towards her dirty shoes before replying nervously, "Emma."

Emma's voice was shy and mousy, and her bit at the ends of her left braid in a way that Clary wondered if Emma was even aware of doing so.

"Hi, everyone," Clary smiled at the kids who were all perched on the front steps of the orphanage. She received waves and small "his" in return. She then narrowed in on the boys behind Emma, who still possessed her brown, worn down teddy bear. The fur was matted, and one button eye hung barely from a thread. The doll must mean a whole lot to Helen for her to still have something so old. Clary wished she had something like that. As a child, her toys were constantly replaced when they'd gotten even the tiniest scratch. She didn't know what it was like to grow attached to a toy. This made Clary even more determined as she addressed the boys in front of her.

"What are your names?" she asked, not cruel in any way, but her voice slightly tensed so thaw knew she wasn't joking around.

They straightened up slightly before replying, "Kane," and "Fredrick" in unison.

"Did I see you messing with Emma?" Clary tried to raise one eyebrow and failed miserably like she did every time. She decided that settling for two was just fine.

"They were tugging on my braids," Emma pouted sadly, before crossing her little arms across her chest in annoyance and sending them a glare with pursed lips.

They mumbled apologies before setting the teddy bear gently back into Emma's outstretched arms.

"Thank you, Princess," she said gratefully, "My mama gave this to me before she died."

Clary thought for a moment, looking at all the orphans in front of her. It seemed as though someone could show them kindness once in a while.

The princess smiled warmly before replying, "How would you like to be a princess for the day?"

"In fact, why don't you all become princesses and princes for the day, and join me in the parade?"

"Kissing children, hugging orphans? What a low, vulgar political trick," Viscount Herondale scoffed from his seat, though Clary was oblivious to his thoughts as she was too far away to hear.

Jace watched Clary as she laughed along with the kids, who were all being handed crowns and tiaras. His eyes hadn't left her since she'd arrived. "She's letting the kids join the parade," he said, mostly to himself since his father was brooding too much to listen, "how charming." Clary wasn't close enough to hear that either.

The kids cheered, rising from their seats on the dusty steps while Clary placed crowns and tiaras onto their head. She thanked the man who'd been selling the plastic accessories, telling them that she'd pay the cost later. Once each kid was up and ready, energy flowing so clearly through their uplifted faces, Clary took Emma's hand.

"Ready, Emma?"

The young girl nodded, still suckling on one of her long braids.

"Just have fun!" Clary shouted to the children as the parade carried on.

Jocelyn gave her a look of approval as the carriage rolled away, and Clary followed behind with the kids. She and Emma waved at the crowd, who roared louder than before. She talked to Emma as they walked and slowly but surely, Emma stopped suckling her braid, letting the plated hair fall from her mouth. In return, a smile crept onto her face and she waved for confidently. Clary couldn't help but feel content. It was one of the best days she'd had since she'd returned in Idris, and it was all thanks to the adorable girl who stood beside her.

When her eyes met Jace's golden ones once more, his eyes reflected an emotion she hadn't seen much from him before; validation. His smile was genuine now as if he was proud of what she'd done. She had only ever seen a few of Jace's genuine smiles. It had only been a moment, and yet it still sent tingles all the way up her spine. As quickly as it appeared, his expression was replaced by his usual fierce blankness that he always seemed to portray. Clary had wondered if she imagined it. She felt as though she was imagining a lot of things lately.

Though she regained his stare once more, and his lips were curled into the barest of smiles that she was sure most wouldn't notice. Only people who knew him well enough would notice any change. She'd spent many nights since her arrival in Idris attempting to perfect his face in drawing; one eyebrow raised, jaw as sharp as daggers, lips curved into a smirk. It wasn't something she would admit to anyone, though she found herself doing it often enough to detect the slightest difference. Her artist's eyes were prone to detail. Maybe even more so when it came to Jace. It was for that reason that when she looked at him again, she knew she hadn't imagined it.

 **Thanks to those of you who still read this, and I would like to update soon. Hope everyone's having a good summer so far!**


	9. The Queen is a Surfer Dude

**It's been roughly a year since my hiatus from this story, so let's attempt to continue, shall we?**

High heels smacked loudly on the floors as though they were throwing powerful punches to the glossy material. That was always the sound that accompanied Izzy wherever she went, trailing behind her like a shadow. Clary had her arms locked with Isabelle's while her friend chatted away about Clary's upcoming bridal shower.

"Ever since you got back, Clare, I've been planning away. I know the marriage wasn't strictly your choice, per se. But it's your wedding! I remember cutting out magazine clippings of bridal dresses and throwing a pretend wedding for you and Alec when we were six years old. I want this to be special for you," she gave Clary a brilliantly warm smile, teeth the envy of ever dentist shining bright, before charging forward with her previous thoughts. "I was thinking of a theme with gold and white accents..."

At Isabelle's pause, Clary looked up to find Jace before them, carrying sheet music in his hand. He was likely making his way to the music room, a little way down the corridor from where the girls had walked. He was rid of his usual attitude. No sarcasm detected yet; Clary was becoming particularly apt at sensing it. And when he gave her a smile, almost shy and hesitant, she wondered if maybe his usual confidence was only half of his true personality. It intrigued her.

"Why, hello brother," Isabelle exclaimed rather animatedly, giving him a questioning look. They seemed to have a conversation with their eyes only, bickering back and forth the way only siblings could. Clary felt a small ache in her chest at seeing it; she and her brother had been very close once upon a time.

Finally, as though Isabelle had lost, she unlooped her arms from Clary's and started retreating, walking backward slowly. Izzy grabbed the maids by their elbows, much to their protests, " Actually, Clare, I have so much to plan still and I want it to be a surprise. You like surprises, right? Anyways..."

Subtle, Isabelle. Subtle.

Isabelle vanished a second later. Clary would have had no idea where that girl had gone without the sound of Iz's heels clomping eastward. She knew Izzy had been in track during high school, but she'd never seen anyone with the ability to run in heels.

Clary awkwardly turned back to face Jace, who was still standing before her. They looked at each other expectantly, as if waiting for the other to speak. When had she gotten so tongue-tied around him? It was only Jace. Who she'd kissed, then promptly fell into a fountain with. Who was going to steal her throne...

"So," she started, tucking her arms behind her back to hide the way they were jittering, shaking. She started to pace slowly in front of him, back and forth, until he reciprocated. They were circling each other, slow and unsure. "Are you here to crash my bridal shower?"

Jace smiled, "Sadly, no. I was actually going to tell you that I was very impressed by what you did at the parade."

This made Clary pause her pacing. She stopped the fidgeting of her hands and looked up into Jace's face. Every time she was around him, she found that she was always searching for the sincerity in his face. Usually, it wasn't so easy to guess but this time, he seemed truly genuine. And Clary felt touched. "Thank you."

Jace seemed to take a long breath as if bracing himself. He reached out to steady his hand on her upper arm, stopping her from bobbing up and down on her heels. She hadn't even realized she'd been doing it. Her arms suddenly went tingly and numb, where Jace had touched it. He felt his hand there for a second before letting go, reassured that Clary had stopped.

"I also wanted to apologize."

Her eyes snapped to his, shocked by the words.

"I know it's not something I necessarily deserve, forgiveness I mean, but I just wanted to say that I don't usually condone the way I've acted recently. There's not really a specific thing, more like a combination of everything. Could we start over?"

Clary's eyebrows had risen slightly. He waited for her expectantly, though Clary was at a loss for words. She'd never really expected to hear an apology from Jace Herondale. She thought for a bit before giving a response. Much had happened between the two of them throughout the last few weeks, though Clary had never held it against him. Not really. Yes, he was trying to steal her throne. Yes, he was a self-assured brat most of the time. But life was too short to be holding grudges. She'd let go of this one some time ago. Because over the past few weeks, she'd gotten to know Jace more than she'd ever had before. And she was starting to realize that maybe, there was more to him than meets the eye. More to him than she thought possible. Maybe, just maybe, she'd misjudged him when they were younger, and the prejudices had carried over to adulthood.

She gave him a small smile, not entirely trusting, but hopefully assuring. "Sure... I would like that."

They shared a tentative smile before a grand bell chiming broke it apart. The doorbell echoed through the corridors, followed by girlish squeals and laughter bouncing off the walls. Clary felt her face grow hot, a red blush peppering her cheeks, ears, and neck. "I'm having a slumber party," she said by way of explanation.

Jace nodded, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly, "right, well."

"I should go," Clary confirmed, pointing over her shoulder at Isabelle, who she knew had been watching their interaction.

Clary spun on the heel of her sneaker before racing down the corridor with Isabelle, looking back once to see Jace standing in the corridor where she'd left him.

* * *

Princesses and important noble girls from around the world crowded the palace of Alicante, all gathered in their best finery for the slumber party of the century. They chatted, all of them well acquainted with one another, as Clary made her rounds. She greeted Duchess Jessamine Lovelace, a slightly stuck-up aristocrat with a distant relation to Simon, though the two would never be caught in the same room with one another. She met Lady Tessa Herondale, the new wife of Jace's cousin Will, who seemed sweet. She met up with important girls from other countries who'd traveled for the occasion. Lady Camille Belcourt of France, who Clary wasn't the biggest fan of but had invited nonetheless; Heiress Catarina Loss, who she knew worked at the Beth Israel hospital close to where Clary had lived in New York; as well as Lady Tessa Herondale, the new wife of Lord Will, Jace's cousin.

This carried on for a while, Clary greeting with girls she'd met long ago, and struggled to find things in common with. She hoped that by the end of the night, they'd all be closer somewhat. She almost jumped out of her skin when she felt hands dig into her sides. Clary turned quickly to find Maia, one of her best friends from high school.

"Maia!"

Maia smirked when they pulled away, "Now that I'm here, let's get this party started."

The next hours were spent opening bridal gifts ranging from million dollar paintings to tiny gilded gold bird cages. Snacks were passed around, juice boxes and candy, chocolate and delectable pastry deserts made by the kitchen staff, and by the time most of the food was gone, it was time for the real event.

"It's time for mattress surfing!" she screamed, loud enough to be heard over the throng of girls.

The main entrance of the palace was set up so that there was a giant metal ramp stationed in between the two spiraling staircases. Girls streamed from all sides up the stairs, grabbing a bed mattress or sleeping bag before launching themselves down the ramp on their stomachs and backs. Clary was overwhelmed by the sight. She stood off to the side, catching her breath for a while. She loved Isabelle and had to admit, she'd been having a lot of fun. But every once in a while, she needed to be away from the social aspect and take a small breather.

"Quite a party, darling!" Clary turned at the sight of her mother coming in through a side entrance, dressed in loose pants and a flowy top, clearly ready for bed. Her dutiful cat, Church, trailed alongside her feet. Queen Jocelyn gazed up at the ramp, girls shooting down, and her smile turned sad. The Queen laughed quietly at her memories. "Jonathan and the boys used to love mattress surfing. I can remember him and Alec and all of their friends yelling up a storm. I could barely sleep when he'd host a party." She shook her head and Clary laughed at the image of her brother.

"I remember. He always told me I could join when I was older. 'Next year, Clare Bear'. It's why I included it."

"I used to participate too, you know..." Clary stared at her mother, aghast. She couldn't imagine the Queen of Idris mattress surfing for a second. A mischievous spark had re-entered the Queen's eyes. "I did it a little different, though."

"I thought you never slide," Clary said suspiciously.

The Queen's eyes went innocent and wide, "Oh, I don't." And with a wink, she was off, ascending quickly up the stairs. She took a mattress and smacked it with her hand, assessing its sturdiness. "Ready, darling?"

Clary cheered, followed by Isabelle and the other party guests.

Without a second thought, Jocelyn leaped onto the mattress and glided as if she were flying. Her arms spread out, she surfed her way down the ramp.

Damn, Clary thought. Her mother was always graceful, even when mattress surfing.

The crowd erupted into applause and praise for the Queen, who shrugged and stepped off the mattress for a curtsey, "That's how it's done."

* * *

The maid of Herondale Manor bustled about, cleaning and dusting at the commands of the Viscount. Stephen Herondale was never particularly nice to his employees, and the maid had become used to it by now. He'd been instructing the poor woman- elderly with fine skin and faded red curls- to fetch him hot coffee, among listing incredibly specific instructions, when his son walked in.

"Hello, father," Jace said, walking with the same ambiance of a younger Stephen Herondale. Jace had always been a striking image of his father.

The viscount studied his son, whose clothes were wrinkled; sleeves rumpled up to rest above his elbows and pants un-ironed, and whose face was strained with hints of anxiety.

"What is it, boy?" the Viscount questioned with an air of suspicion, right eyebrow risen to the sky. "Something's been on your mind, so get it out with." That was more of a demand than anything. The Viscount was always incredible with demands.

Jace ran his pianist's fingers through long locks of golden hair which were too long for Stephen's liking, and said, "What we're doing is wrong."

Out of all the things Stephen would've imagined, this hadn't been it. He'd always believed to have his son perfectly groomed, not only alike in appearance but mirrored personalities, mirrored goals. When staring at his son, he'd felt as though his exact reflection was staring back. Apparently, this hadn't been the case. He grunted in frustration, not bothering to hide the disappointment laced into his gruff voice, "whatever do you mean, my boy?"

Jace sighed. His father had never been one to back down, and he'd known that he'd have a hard time before his father would comply. "What we're doing to the Fairchild's, it's-" he sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose in a sign of frustration before continuing.

"What are you saying?" his father's voice started to rise as he bellowed out his disappointments. His father studied his face, watching for any clues into the inner workings of Jace Herondale's mind. Maybe the viscount could pick apart Jace's brain to see where he went wrong, where they both went so wrong.

"Princess Clary is smart, and she really cares about Idris. I understand why we needed to challenge it in the first place. Maybe... maybe it wouldn't be so bad if she ran the country." Jace stopped his pacing, he'd noticed that his feet liked to pace around his father's presence.

"Are you mad?"

"She believes in Idris so much that she's convinced herself to marry someone she knows that she can never love!"

"I can't believe I'm hearing this," the Viscount smiles though it was one of menace, one that didn't entirely reach his eyes. It was a sign of anger, not of joy. He shakes his head lightly as she starts to speak again, "you want her to rule? After all the effort that we have put in, to end up with nothing?"

Stephen Herondale was in disbelief. His own son, ending up as pathetic as the rest of the country, who cheered for a girl who knew only but happiness and light, who knew nothing of the real world. He waved his hands around in frantic gestures as he spoke, hoping that somehow these tensed motions would slap sense into his son.

"It wouldn't be nothing," Jace protested, his voice lowered to normal, even and almost uninterested. But entirely convincing. "Idris would be in good hands and... she'd be happy."

Jace had known he should've filtered that sentence before it was said because, at that moment, realization dawned on Stephen Herondale's face as if he knew exactly why his son was saying these things.

He lifted his head slowly like a knowing nod, before replacing his features with a wicked smile, "You've fallen in love with her." It was a statement. Stephen Herondale was incredibly good at statements.

"...No," Jace hesitated for a moment, but it was a moment too long. "No, father. I'm asking you-"

"No, no, no, no, no... You listen." The Viscount sighed long and hard, "what do you think will happen, hmm? That's she'll leave Nicholas and marry you?"

It wasn't a question for Jace to answer, and the Viscount waited for no reply.

"I. Wanted. To. Make. You. A. King." he said, punctuating every word clearly for his son to comprehend. "I did not spend my efforts for you to marry a Queen. I will not have it, sir." More demands, more expectations, more statements dripped from the Viscount's mouth like a river of poisonous displeasure, intoxicating the air with an acrid stench.

"Don't worry, father." By the tone in Jace's voice, he could've been talking about the weather, or the latest baseball game. He sat down on the wooden coffee table before his father in the living room. "That will never happen. Clary doesn't care for me like that."

"Oh," Stephen smiles another bitter smile as he traps his son's jaw with his powerful grip. He held just hard enough to make marks on the tan skin beneath. "But you care for her, my boy. It will be your undoing."

Jace sighed for the hundredth time since they'd started speaking, and ripped his face from his father's iron fingers. "I just want to stop trying to sabotage her, that's all."

It was suddenly like the Viscount had changed his mind completely. His face released its tension with the snap of a finger, and his demeanor changed back to complete normalcy. "Alright," he said, tightening his navy blue tie around his neck. "If that's what you really want."

"Go to her, congratulate her. And tell her that we surrender."

Jace narrowed his eyes warily at his father, suspicious of the intentions. He rose from his seat and strode carefully towards the door. As if a sudden movement could change his father's mind.

"I just want your happiness, son," the Viscount stated once Jace had gotten to the front door.

"Thank you, father..." Jace responded, with an unsettled feeling gripping his insides like metal claws.

With that, he'd walked out of the house.

It was then the Viscount's expressions were transformed back to that of fury. So close to the crown, only to have it ripped from his grasp like a child's stolen lollipop. He ripped the house phone off its hook, angrily punching in the number.

"Lydia Branwell, please..."

 **Thank you to everyone who still read this fic! I haven't given up on it quite yet.**


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